


Better than coffee

by Anonymous



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7817092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance can’t help but linger around a perpetually grumpy-looking employee who works at the nearby teahouse. Keith, despite all the Yelp reviews, turns out to be surprisingly kind. Lance starts coming every day—although he insists it’s only for the boba.</p><p>And to complain about the customer service, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vietnamese coffee with pudding

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes:
> 
> 1\. This fic is unapologetically Californian  
> 2\. There are NO love triangles or unrequited love at all, promise!

Lance stood outside the store window, pining.

“No,” said Pidge.

“I didn’t even—”

“ _No_.”

He had been banned from coffee with the exception of the days preceding a midterm or final, and it was first time in his life he had ever yearned for an exam.

“Pidge, you know coffee isn’t even bad for you. You’ve read that Harvard study!”

“The one you emailed me, actually mailed me in my mailbox, and stuck outside my door after the intervention? Yeah. I got that. We all did. Still no.”

“ _God_ ,” said Lance. “I hate having friends. I hate having people who care about me. Why can’t you all just let me engage in destructive behavior in peace? _God_.”

He huffed and kicked a rock, which ricocheted off the wall and hit him in the shin.

/

He just needed something to hold in his hand—that was all. Really. It wasn’t because tea had caffeine in it, or that he could smell the coffee shop from the boba shop.

Despite it being right next door to Lance’s favorite coffee shop, he had never been to Voltron. He had never tried boba at all, actually, though everyone around him seemed obsessed with it. (Coffee was the only mistress he needed.)

There were four shops within a mile of the university, so he checked the Yelp reviews to make sure this really was the best boba place around:   

  

> **Kylie Mendoza** ★★★★★
> 
> My FAVORITE boba spot ever! A little pricey, but it’s quality shit (my favorite is the taro milk tea with rainbow jelly, MMMM), and there are so many tables with outlets and comfy chairs to study at. Gets pretty packed during finals week, but what can ya do. Barista (are they called baristas too?) is hot as fuck. Really rude though, which is why I’m taking off one star. But hot, so I’m giving it an extra star. 

 

> **Mikey R.** ★★★★✩
> 
> way too expensive for my poor wallet but i can’t stop coming here. i think they put something in their boba--crack? meth? brown sugar?--that just makes it so addictive. i also appreciate the cool music they play, but i don’t know what’s up with the interior design… the paintings on the wall look all art nouveau but the vibe of the place screams art deco. just sayin’. also i feel bad complaining about the customer service because the main worker Keith always makes my drinks really well and really fast even when it’s really busy--i really don’t know how he does it, it’s incredible--but i must complain that KEITH KOGANE IS A RUDE ASS BITCH WHO STOLE MY GIRLFRIEND, THANKS. for that, minus one star.

 

> **Esther Chua** ★★★★★
> 
> I love this place but what the heck is up with the dude who works here. I feel like he’s one of those guys that think they don’t have to follow basic human rules of niceness just because they’re goodlooking… He makes a mean sea salt jasmine though, so whatever. Also don’t bother asking him out because he’ll just say no lol.

 

> **Mahesh L.** ★★★★★
> 
> Walked in during finals week, delirious and half-dead from three consecutive all-nighters. Had heard tales of the outrageously good drinks here and decided to try it (the human brain fixates on odd things when severely deprived, I suppose…). My vision was blurry and my head out of sorts, but when I entered my gaze fell upon some ethereal being. It was like a mirage. Never until that moment had I truly tasted my own mortality… An oasis in the cruel desert that is organic chemistry with Prof. Cruz (FUCK that guy his tests are impossible!!! WTF).
> 
> Keith Kogane, if you’re reading this, call me.

 

“What the hell?”

He didn’t know entirely what to make of the reviews, so he pocketed his phone and walked in.

When the barista ( _were_ they called baristas?) looked up at him, he knew this was Keith.

Deep brown eyes, ridiculously soft-looking black hair, plush pink mouth, cheekbones that could cut glass. If Helen of Troy were an Asian guy in a Metallica T-shirt. Yes, this had to be Keith. He understood all of the reviews instantly.

“Welcome,” Keith said in a voice so dead Lance thought he had to be putting effort into it.

“What’s good here?”

“Everything.”

“All right-y then.” He understood the reviews even more.

The menu was ridiculously large, drinks listed in tiny white font crammed onto a blackboard that spanned the entire length of back wall, and even the small “add-ons” list was confusing. What was “grass jelly”—jello made of grass? Did they put jello in the drinks? Did “popping boba” explode?

After a while, he said, “I’ve never tried this stuff before, so just give me whatever’s the most popular.”

Surprise and a spark of liveliness—excitement?—flashed in Keith’s eyes.

“Never?” he said.

Lance shook his head.

A few minutes later, Keith called out, “Blue hat!” and after Lance looked up at his own Dodgers cap with amusement, he took the drink.

“Do I just… jab it in?” said Lance, holding up his straw.

Keith nodded.

He did so, and was proud to note that his shirt was only stained a little bit.

When he took his first sip, his eyes went wide.

“Holy shit,” said Lance. “This is delicious.”

Keith nodded sagely.

Lance sipped some more. “I can’t believe I’ve never had this before. I’ve been missing out.”

Keith nodded harder.

Something soft and round and sweet hit Lance’s tongue. He chewed on it hesitantly.

“Woaaah,” he said. “This is cool.”

Keith kept nodding enthusiastically, closing his eyes.

“Thanks, man,” said Lance.

Keith blinked, a bit surprised. “No problem.”

Lance asked how working here was (“Good.”), if he was a student at the university (“Yeah.”), and what year he was (“Second.” “Me too!”); he was terse, but not exactly rude like the reviews had claimed.

“What’s your major? I’m bio.”

“Double majoring in history and Korean.”

“Are you Korean?”

“Yeah,” said Keith.

“Ha, isn’t majoring in your own language like taking the easy way out?”

Lance had meant it purely as a joke, but Keith soured. The straw fell out of Lance’s mouth at the sudden shift.

“Not everyone has the privilege of knowing their native language,” said Keith, and if Lance thought his cheekbones could cut glass, then his eyes could cut through to the bone.

“I—I didn’t mean to offend you.”

This didn’t help Keith’s anger.

Lance tried again. “That was a bad joke—sorry. My friends say I have foot-in-mouth syndrome sometimes and I don’t really—ah, anyway, I’m sorry.”

Before Keith could respond, Lance awkwardly said goodbye and tried not to rush out the door.

/

The other three shops within a mile served boba that was essentially syrup water compared to Voltron’s. He didn’t want to go back after that encounter with Keith, so he tried every other place he could find, trying to convince himself that the drinks were half decent.

But here he was, hidden behind the wall and peeking through the window. He anxiously chewed on his bracelet, watching as Keith took someone’s order. He tried to come when Keith wasn’t working, but Keith always seemed to be working. Lance was being cowardly, he knew, and normally when he put his foot in his mouth it wasn’t such a big deal. He wasn’t exactly shy.

But the way Keith had looked at him—Lance had really touched a nerve. He still felt a pang of guilt when he thought of it, even if he didn’t entirely know why he had upset Keith so much.

After a longing glance at the coffee shop, Lance stepped in.

“Hi,” he said, trying to smile. “I wasn’t going to come back, but every other boba place is shit. Sorry.”

Keith stared at him.

“Or, I can leave,” said Lance, voice going high-pitched. “I’ll just—”

“Calm down,” said Keith. “I’m not gonna hold a grudge when you sincerely apologized. Just tell me your order.”

Lance blinked, relieved and a little—stunned.

He cleared his throat. “Got anything that will keep me awake for midterms?”

“Coffee?”

“Something I can get here!”

“Vietnamese coffee?”

This piqued his interest. “What’s the difference between Vietnamese coffee and American coffee?”

“It’s better.”

Lance gave him an unimpressed look. “Yelp was right: the customer service here sucks.”

“ _Yelp_ ,” Keith hissed like it was the bane of his existence.

After a few minutes, Keith slid him a cup over the counter.

“Shit,” said Lance. “This is good.” He chewed on something. “Is this flan?”

Keith nodded. “Egg pudding.”

“Y’all really think of everything.”

Keith, stunningly, smiled. It was small, but his whole face softened.

Lance choked on his pudding.

/

When Lance came in the next day and ordered the same thing, he sat down this time, scratching his fingers over the old wood tables while studying and periodically watching Keith from the corner of his eyes. He worked nonstop, churning out drinks with a perpetual crease between his eyebrows, although Lance never got the feeling that he didn’t enjoy it.

It really was a nice place, trendy but homey, and all the chatter melted into the perfect background for studying. The stale silence of campus libraries had started to eat away at Lance, even if it was the best place for no distractions.

He forced himself to flip over his flashcard, sighing loudly at the familiar crick in his neck. After going through a stack of cards almost as tall has his cup, he laid his head on the table and relished the coolness against his cheek.

When he woke up, it was dark outside.

“Shit.”

He rolled his neck and sighed. He wasn’t sure how many hours he had lost, but he’d be up late tonight paying for it. His last midterm was in two days.

The entire place was empty, no customers lounging around or employees behind the counter. The shop closed at midnight, and his phone read—

_12:14 AM_

He shot up, chair screeching loudly in the eerie silence.

“Hello?” he called.

The yellow lights flickered, and something clanged in the back kitchen.

“ _Ghost_ ,” he whispered.

“Ghosts aren’t real.”

Lance yelped and whipped around. Keith was holding out a large cup of Vietnamese coffee, towel slung over his shoulder like he was a bartender.

“On the house,” he said. “You look like you need it.”

“Ghosts _are_ real,” Lance blurted, staring down at the cup.

Keith raised an eyebrow.

Still staring at it in wonder, Lance took the coffee, a shock of cold against his hand. “Thank you.”

“I’m about to lock up, so you can’t stay here anymore. Sorry.”

Lance nodded, scrambling to shove all of his textbooks and flashcards into his backpack. When he was out the door, Keith was still wiping down the counter one last time. The crease between his eyebrows was gone and left a surprisingly serene expression, as if he didn’t notice the creepy flickering lights or the approaching blare of ambulance sirens or the pink raw skin of his own hands. Or perhaps he was just used to it.

/

Two days later, after he walked out of his last midterm, Lance’s heavy body and aching head screamed at him to go back to his dorm room and sleep, but he dragged himself off campus.

“Welcome,” said Keith in that same dead voice. He looked Lance up and down, crease between his brows deepening at the rumpled clothes and droopy posture.

“Give me some more of that coffee,” said Lance, throwing down a crumpled five dollar bill.

It was last bill he had in his wallet, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was also breaking his no-coffee rule now that midterms were over, but he couldn’t care about that either. Pidge and Hunk could yell at him later.

After a while, he was feeling a little wired again, that sweet half-life that only coffee could give him. He gave himself a break today, slumping on the couch (surprisingly comfortable despite the rips and lumps) and scrolling through internet. He was halfway to falling asleep when Keith sat down at a table in the back corner of the room, sipping a drink and writing on a piece of paper as he skimmed a textbook.

Lance closed his laptop and jogged over, sitting down without permission.

“Is that bio?” said Lance.

“Yeah.” Keith gave him an odd look, but didn’t ask him to leave.

Lance recognized that textbook—Keith was taking an intro biology course that had a notoriously high fail rate despite being a general ed class. Lance suppressed a grin, peeking over at his notes. He had aced this class. It was the perfect time to swoop in and save Keith, dissemble his secret study methods and then bask in Keith’s appreciation. Perhaps he would get another smile.

“Pretty hard, huh?” said Lance. “I can help you if you want.”

“It’s cool. I have an A right now, so I’m not worried.”

So much for that plan.

“I’m Lance, by the way.”

“Keith.”

“I know. You’re pretty famous on the Yelp page.”

“ _Yelp_ ,” he hissed again. “Don’t believe everything you read.”

“Did you really steal Mikey R.’s girlfriend?”

“Mikey Raygoza?”

Lance was surprised that he knew his customer’s name—he always called out orders like “blue hat” or “red scarf” or “white frat guy with the freckles.”

“I didn’t ‘steal’ his girlfriend. They broke up and she asked me out,” said Keith. “Lot of drama goes on in this place. Hard not to get caught in the crossfire sometimes.”

He looked displeased at that, like he wished it was just a quiet place where people would leave him alone to make drinks, but Lance perked up.

“Got any juicy gossip?”

Keith shrugged. “One guy got stabbed with a fork, and another was arrested for doing coke in the bathroom. FBI suspected us of money laundering once.”

“I—I meant like, dumb teenager gossip.”

“Oh,” said Keith. “Um, I caught two professors making out in the bathroom once.”

Lance rested his chin on his hands. “Now _that’s_ the kind of content I’m about.”

Keith continued on with his eyes still glued to the textbook, and it was interesting to see how much he was willing to supply Lance with tidbits of gossip and crazy stories—did he just happen to be less reticent today, or was it just that easy to get him to talk if you put in a little effort?

Lance’s mind drifted to the image of Keith appearing out of nowhere behind him, holding out a free cup of cold, sweet coffee. Letting him sleep there past closing and drool on a table he probably had to clean up later. Not interested in holding a grudge.

He tried to reconcile Keith’s sharp eyes and tense shoulders with the odd gentleness of his actions.

“My break’s over,” said Keith after ten minutes.

Lance’s face fell. “See you later then.”

 

* * *

 

“So, Lance. He sure comes around a lot,” said Allura in a teasing voice, somehow made worse by her English accent.

Lance had come in almost every day for the past three weeks and never failed to coax Keith into conversation, which Allura had begun raising a suspicious (but pleased) eyebrow at.

“Yup,” Keith said carefully. “Sure likes boba. Good taste.”

“Oh yes. _Very_ good taste.”

Well, he walked right into that one.

“It’s not like that. He’s just a friendly guy.”

“Well, he seems extra friendly with you. He’s not even put off by your grumpiness.”

“He’s like that to everyone,” Keith said.

Lance was good at talking to strangers, he had noticed. He had made more friends with the customers and workers here in weeks than Keith had in over a year. He was a little clumsy and, yes, had foot-in-mouth syndrome, but was a sincere guy. One of those people who talked easily, who had a brightness that people were attracted to.

Keith wondered what it was like to be someone like that.

Allura hummed.

“Go home,” said Keith, looking at the darkening sky.

“What? I have another hour on my shift.”

“I’ll cover for you. We don’t have a lot of customers right now. It’s not safe for you to walk home at night—you should leave before it gets dark soon.”

Allura gave him a warm, fond look that made him want to turn his head away. She used to argue that she’d be fine, but after a year of working with Keith and his stubbornness, she now just accepted his offer and gave him a tight hug on her way out.

Now he was alone. A few customers trickled in, but it was a slow evening; one of the other boba shops in the neighborhood had recently implemented a happy hour between 8:00 and midnight, so Voltron saw less customers. It may not have been good for business, but for Keith it was a relief. The store had been endlessly busy in the year he had worked there, but in the past week he had had a few moments each evening to stand around and breathe.

They were precious. He wish he didn’t spend them feeling the heavy weight and stiffness of his own bones.

His head was leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, when the door opened with a little jingle of the bells. Usually the shop was too loud to hear it, but now it was the only sound in the room.

The disappointment at having a customer was forgotten when he saw that it was Lance.

Lance grinned sheepishly. “I don’t actually have any money, so can I just get a cup of water?”

“Freeloader,” said Keith.

There was no one else here, so he delivered the water and milk tea to Lance’s table.

Lance stared at the tea for a while, face unreadable, then smiled up at him. “Thanks.” He pushed out the chair with his foot, and Keith sat down. Then, after some hesitation, he said, “You’re always working. When do you have time to study?”

He had no idea how Keith found the time to get near-perfect grades, and while double-majoring no less. Or the time to sleep, for that matter.

“Late at night. Early morning. Whenever I can,” said Keith.

“You don’t want to cut back on your hours?”

“Need the money.”

“But—you’re _always_  here.”

Keith leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. “Pay’s not bad.”

Lance frowned, brows furrowed.

He thought that Keith might sit here with him a little longer, but the doorbell jingled again, and Keith was on his feet.

It had taken him a while, but when the store was quiet and still and he was sitting right across from him, he could see it: Keith was tired. Keith was always tired. Lance had thought it was just his personality, and perhaps that was part of it, but Keith didn’t talk a lot because he didn’t have the energy; he always looked serious because he was exhausted; his voice always sounded dead when he greeted people because he probably felt half-dead.

Jesus Christ.

The dark circles under Keith’s eyes and the pallor of his face were painful to look at, and Lance didn’t know why it had taken him this long to notice.

Keith’s long, slender fingers wrapped around a bottle of honey as he poured it into a plastic cup. He stirred with quick, sharp movements, not missing a beat even as the customer complained loudly on the phone in a particularly grating voice about how long his order was taking (Lance wanted to throw his cup at him, but that would’ve been a waste of deliciousness and Keith’s kindness, so glared instead).

When Keith looked up to see Lance staring at him, Lance jerked and spilled a bit of tea on his chin. He wiped it off with his jacket sleeve as Keith smiled, shoulders shaking like he was about to laugh.

Lance’s cheeks burned. The milk tea wasn’t overly sugary, and yet the sweetness seemed to clog his throat all the same. He swallowed.

Finally, he tore his eyes away and forced himself to open his laptop, typing away at his lit essay. It was hard to remember the thesis of his own paper at this point. What would Keith think of Jane Austen? Did he like to read?

A few hours passed, and Keith was too busy to sit down with him again, but stopped to give him more water after noticing Lance’s cup was empty.

Lance finished his paper half an hour before midnight, but stayed until closing anyway, biting the end of his straw and loudly slurping at his empty cup just to get Keith to shoot annoyed glances his way.

At the stroke of midnight, the lights began flickering.

“Again?” said Lance. “They did this last time too.”

“The lights always go in and out right at midnight. It’s been this way ever since I started working here,” said Keith. “Not sure why.”

“Seriously? Right at midnight?”

“On the dot.”

Lance looked at him with horror. “You don’t think that’s… creepy?”

“Not really? They’re just lights.”

“But right at 12:00. Every single day. That just _screams_ ‘ghost,’ Keith.”

Keith snorted, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Ghosts aren’t real, Lance.”

“Ugh, you freaking skeptics. Never willing to see what’s right in front of you.”

“Wait, aren’t you a scientist?! How can you believe in ghosts?”

Lance scoffed. “Please. Haven’t you ever seen _Ghostbusters_?”

“No?”

“What?” Lance cried. “Jesus. You’re a strange boy, you know that?”

When Keith finished closing up, they walked together to the end of the block and were about to go their separate ways when Lance grasped his arm.

“Uh, wait,” he said. He swallowed, swiping a sweaty palm on his jeans. “I was wondering, do you wanna, like, hang out some time—outside the shop?”

Keith looked at him for a long moment, then said, “What do you have in mind?”

Lance’s heart rate sped at the prospect of Keith actually saying yes. “Oh, um—anything, really? Anything is fine.”

“Okay,” said Keith. “You want my number?”

“Yes!” said Lance, eyes wide.

They exchanged phones and input their numbers. Keith’s smartphone was an older model and worked slowly, reminding Lance of what he had said earlier— _“Need the money.”_ It sobered him until he noticed the alien print on the case and a furry cat charm hanging from the corner. It was an adorable discovery that begged teasing, but he kept his mouth shut in case Keith decided to spite Lance by not giving him his number. Lance wasn’t taking any chances with this one.

After Keith turned the corner, giving him one last glance before disappearing, Lance pumped his fist in the air, grinning so wide his face hurt.

/

“So are you going to text him?” said Hunk, lying on the floor of Lance’s dorm room and eating kale chips.

“Of course not; it’s only been a day. I don’t want to look desperate,” said Lance.

Pidge raised an eyebrow. “Really? Then what do you call scouring the internet for Keith’s Instagram and Twitter? Or visiting him almost every day for a month?”

“Healthy curiosity and a love for boba,” he said haughtily. “Also, who doesn’t have an Instagram?!”

It was a huge inconvenience for Lance. He really felt like he was being deprived by not getting to see Keith’s selfies. Keith would probably be the type to post landscape photos with fake-deep quotes, too, all brooding and shit.

“But if you want to talk to him, why not just text him?” said Hunk.

“Oh Hunk, my dear innocent friend,” Lance sighed.

But he still had a message open to Keith on his phone screen, blank and tempting.

He typed, “ _Hey! It’s Lance. How’s it going? :) ”_ then erased it.

“ _Hey dude. What’s up?”_

Backspace.

“ _Did you know that a group of cats is called a clower? I’m telling you this because that’s adorable and also you remind me of a cat_ ”

Delete.

_“Hey!”_

Was the exclamation point too eager? No, it was perfect. That was the one. He would wait until tonight to send it.

He fell back on his bed, tapping his fingers and glancing at his phone every few seconds to see if Keith had texted him first. After a minute of listening to the crunch of Hunk’s kale chips, he cursed himself and hit send.

A minute later, his phone buzzed.

He rushed to open the message.

_“Hey”_

Those three letters should not have given him a rush, but they did.

“I thought you were waiting to text him,” said Pidge, smug.

“Shut up!”

_“What’s up? You working?”_

Keith’s reply came a maddening ten minutes later: _“No, studying at the library”_

 _“Can I join you?”_ Lance bit his lip, shaking his foot.

After a minute, his phone buzzed.

_“If you want”_

/

Keith was tucked away in the corner of the third floor of the least popular library on campus. It was the oldest and dingiest library with wobbly wooden chairs and tables and paint that peeled off the wall, and the wi-fi connection was the worst.

It was consequently the quietest and least crowded library, though. Perhaps that was why Keith chose it.

“Hey,” Lance said as he sat down, not bothering to whisper. The only other people on the floor sat far away and had their earphones in, not paying any attention to them. “Are you hungry? Brought you some kale chips.”

“Ew,” said Keith, but he ate one anyway.

Lance laughed. “I know right! But my roommate is a health nut and he’s always pushing stuff like this on me.”

Lance continued to describe Hunk (“He’s majoring in mechanical engineering, which he likes, but he actually wants to open a restaurant some day. I would support him, but he’d probably want to sell healthy shit like organic vegetable smoothies and quinoa casseroles, which I just cannot morally condone. What the hell is quinoa, anyway?”). Keith listened, head resting in his hands like he was bored, but his eyes, as always, were attentive and focused.

When Lance moved on to describing his other best friend Pidge, a computer science major with a dry wit (“Are you and all your friends STEM majors?”—“Sorry, we can’t help it if we’re brilliant and good at complex math, unlike you humanities folks.”—Keith glared), Keith’s phone buzzed.

“Who’s that?” said Lance, trying to see his screen. He thought of Keith as a bit of a loner and was extremely curious about any friends he had.

“My friend Shiro. Just asking me if he left his book at my apartment.”

“Woah, a guy like you has a friend?”

Keith flicked Lance on the forehead.

“Ow!” He rubbed at the nonexistent pain, secretly pleased that Keith felt familiar enough with him to make physical contact. “So who’s Shiro?”

“Friend.”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Yeah? What’s he like?”

“I dunno. Nice? He’s an English major. Japanese. Works out a lot.” Keith paused, thinking for a moment. “It’s kind of hard to describe someone you’ve known a long time.”

That reminded Lance. “Hey, ‘Kogane’ is Japanese, right? But you’re Korean. Are you half Japanese?”

“No,” said Keith. “That’s the name I got from my first foster parents.” Then, after pausing as if to decide whether he wanted to tell Lance, “My birth parents died a long time ago.”

Lance froze, staring at him and trying to process those words.

Keith gave him a wry smile. “You’re giving me that look.”

“What look?”

“That pitying look people give me sometimes when they know I’m an orphan.”

“I don’t pity you,” Lance said, but that might’ve been a lie. He couldn’t stop thinking about Keith, alone, with dead parents. Keith had also said “first” foster parents, like he had had multiple. How many homes had he lived in?

Keith didn’t respond, so Lance took a chance. “Do you know your Korean surname, then?”

Keith looked at him for a long time, just like he had when Lance asked to hang out that night, and said, “Jang.”

He slid a piece of paper between them and wrote, _장_.

“It’s the first word I ever learned how to write in Hangul.”

Lance traced over lines and curves of the name in his mind, trying to commit it to memory.

“Did you ever think of changing your name back to Jang?”

“Not really.” Lance looked up at him in surprise. “I don’t feel the need to,” Keith explained. “It wouldn’t change anything, and I’m not particularly attached to it.”

Lance thought that couldn’t be true when Keith was double-majoring in Korean despite being perpetually overworked, when he had given him that bitter look the day they first met— _“Not everyone has the privilege of knowing their native language”_ —but Keith didn’t look like he was lying or downplaying his emotions.

So “Keith” was Scottish, “Kogane” was Japanese, and Keith Kogane was Korean. Somehow, the discord and harmony of these layers were fitting.

“What’s in a name?” said Lance. “That which we call a rose—”

Keith wrinkled his nose (rather adorably, Lance noted). “Don’t call me a _rose_.”

Lance clutched his chest on one hand and held out the other to Keith. “But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Keith is the sun!”

Keith pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why did I ever give you my number?”

/

After that, they made a habit of going to library together (the first time Keith had texted him, _“At the library, wanna come?”_ Lance may have accidentally knocked over Hunk’s lamp and then smiled so big Hunk couldn’t scold him about it). Keith practically lived there when he wasn’t at home or at Voltron anyway, and with Keith to keep him company, Lance wasn’t so suffocated by the silence. In fact, Keith was the perfect study partner—studious and focused, but would listen to Lance ramble whenever he wanted and was always ready with a quip.

By the time finals rolled around, they were still sitting in their same corner of the library, barely held together by energy drinks, boba, and the occasional nudge from the other when one started to fall asleep.

“When did we even learn this?” said Lance, pencil in his mouth and clutching his hair.

Keith took a look at his calculus problem, thought for a while, then finished it for him.

“What the hell?” said Lance. He checked Keith’s answer with the answer key in the back of the book. “How do you even know how to do that? You major in history!”

Keith shrugged. “Allura is minoring in it, and I look at her textbooks sometimes.”

Allura. Lance kept wondering if there was anything between them, anxiety nagging at him. She was, he grudgingly admitted, gorgeous and brilliant, and Lance would probably have a crush on her if he had never met Keith, who had a talent for eclipsing everyone else in Lance’s vision. She and Keith worked together all the time, too, and she seemed like one of his closest friends after Shiro, who Keith had known since high school and whom Lance had yet to meet. (Lance was really, really hoping Shiro was ugly, or at least straight.)

“So, have you and Allura ever… you know.”

“What?” said Keith.

“Have you guys ever had a thing? Or have a thing now?”

Keith’s brows furrowed. “Yeah? We’re friends.”

Lance sighed in frustration. “No, I mean, do you like her?”

“Of course,” said Keith. Lance’s heart dropped to his feet. “Why would I be friends with her if I didn’t like her?”

“No!” Lance slapped his hand over his face. “I meant, do you like her romantically? Do you want to date her? Have you guys ever been boyfriend and girlfriend? Do you dream of marrying her and honeymooning in Scotland and having her babies?”

“What? No!” said Keith. “That’d be weird.”

“But she’s super hot. And really smart and nice and one of the few people you’re close to, right?”

“Yeah, sure. Doesn’t mean I want to date her.” Then Keith blinked. “You like her or something?”

“No,” said Lance, wanting to make that very clear. “No no no no no. I don’t.”

Keith looked at him suspiciously, and Lance hoped that maybe there was a little jealousy in that expression. (There seemed to be none, but Lance could dream.)

“Really!” said Lance.

“Okay,” said Keith, giving him one last look before turning the page of his textbook.

Around 2:00 a.m., they stared at each other with aching eyes, slouched backs mirrored in the other, and decided to leave.

Lance prepared himself for the usual disappointment of seeing Keith go at the end of every night, but Keith said, “I’m hungry. What’s open?”

“Everything on campus is closed. You wanna go to In-N-Out?”

When they got there, the cheery yellow-and-red sign glowing in the dark, it was loud and crowded. Keith sighed when someone pushed past him without an apology.

A warm hand appeared on his shoulder. His eyes widened.

“Shiro!”

“Hey!” said Shiro, smiling.

Lance turned around and immediately wanted to groan.

Of course. Of course Shiro was hot as hell and built like Chris Evans. Lance couldn’t catch a break. He even had a long scar crossing his nose that made him look badass rather than detracted from his good looks.

Not. Fucking. Fair.

Did Keith hang out exclusively with others like himself—i.e., supermodels masquerading as college students?

Shiro looked at Lance curiously, dragging him out of his sulking. “You must be Lance! I’ve heard so much about you.”

“You have?”

_Keith talks about me?_

“Of course!”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were already back?” said Keith, frowning.

Shiro had been studying abroad for the past quarter in England doing something with Shakespeare.

“I knew you’d insist on picking me up from the airport and I didn’t want to drag you away from studying.”

Keith scowled. “Just tell me next time.”

“Sorry!” Shiro smiled at him fondly. “I got you In-N-Out, though. I was going to bring it to your apartment right now, actually, but you’re already here.” He turned to Lance. “Ah, I would’ve gotten you some if I had known you two were together.”

“It’s fine,” said Lance.

As he watched them talk, watched the way Shiro avoided brushing his prosthetic hand against passers-by but had no trouble putting it on Keith’s shoulder, they way Keith gave him smiles so easily like he did for no one else, it dawned on him that Keith and Shiro would be spending a lot of time together now that Shiro was back. All the free time Keith had to spend with Lance this past quarter—where would it go now that Shiro was here, ready to reclaim his best friend?

Where was Lance supposed to fit when Keith kept unconsciously leaning closer Shiro, the space between them disappearing so quickly?

Something in his chest clenched painfully, and for the first time since meeting Keith, he looked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally inspired by my own life-long love of boba... Also I apologize for not naming the boba shop anything more creative than "Voltron," ha!
> 
> I know it's pretty slow going, so thank you so much for reading!


	2. Jasmine milk tea with grass jelly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAH, thank you SO much for all of your responses last chapter! Every comment made me smile like a fool :') 
> 
> ~4.5K words

Lance was acting weird. Well—weirder than normal.

It was easy for Keith to pick up on these things; he had become attuned to Lance’s facial expressions and body language, his mannerisms and quirks. He could tell when Lance was nervous because he’d start discreetly wiping his palms on his jeans, and he understood when a joking comment actually hurt his feelings because his lip would curl a certain way and his shoulders would go rigid.

So Keith knew that something was wrong, because his smiles didn’t always reach his eyes, and he didn’t text Keith eighty times a day like he usually did (now it was more like seventy-five times a day, and with fewer emojis), and sometimes when Keith did something completely innocuous, Lance would look away for no reason. Keith saw all of this clearly.

He just didn’t know _why_.

People had called him clueless before, but it had never bothered him until now.

Still, Lance kept coming into the boba shop every day and sought out his company, so Keith couldn’t have messed up that badly.

Today, Lance walked in with two other people.

“Keith! Meet my friends, Pidge and Hunk.”

“We already know Keith,” said Hunk.

“What?”

“Lance, you were the only one who’s never met him. We’ve been coming to Voltron since freshman year,” said Pidge.

“What the hell? I feel so left out! You didn’t tell me you know Pidge and Hunk, Keith.”

“Of course I know them.” He pointed to Hunk—“That’s Mango Black Tea With Chia Seeds”—then to Pidge—“and that’s Thai Tea With Almond Milk And Boba.”

“I’m so flattered,” Pidge said dryly.

“Mango Black Tea With Chia Seeds also wrote me a nice review on Yelp,” said Keith, patting him lightly on the shoulder.

Hunk clutched his chest, touched. “You remembered that?”

“If Hunk is Mango Seeds and Pidge is Thai Whatever, then what am I?” said Lance.

“You’re Lance.”

Lance rolled his eyes.

A few minutes later, Keith delivered drinks to their table and, to Lance’s delight, sat down with them.

“You taking a break?”

Hunk and Pidge smiled at the excitement in his voice, which Lance ignored.

Keith nodded and stretched his arms, wincing and sighing. Lance frowned.

“Hey,” said Lance, “there’s a showing of _Ghostbusters_ at this theatre a few towns away. Since Keith is an antisocial weirdo who’s never seen it, we should all go before we leave for winter break!”

“I’m busy that day,” said Pidge. “And so is Hunk. You two go alone.”

“But I didn’t tell you what day it was yet.”

“I’m busy all the days,” said Pidge.

“Yeah, me too. Gotta water my plants, bro,” said Hunk.

“Okaaay,” said Lance, eyebrow quirked. “You’re going, right Keith?”

“Sure. You’re buying me popcorn though.”

Hunk and Pidge bumped fists under the table.

“Shiro!” said Keith as Shiro walked through the door, waving.

Watching Keith’s face light up, Lance was torn between jealousy and the butterflies in his stomach.

Shiro sat down next to Keith and took a sip of Keith’s drink. Lance stared at the straw.

“We’re seeing _Ghostbusters_ this weekend. You coming?” said Keith.

Lance pursed his lips, fighting a glare.

Shiro glanced at his expression, then said, “No, thank you. I have some, uh, books to finish before winter break.”

“Nerd,” said Lance, no humor in his voice.

Shiro smiled patiently.

/

Shiro was everywhere. He was always on their couch next to Keith at Voltron, their corner table on the third floor of the library, in their pictures and their dorm room and their conversations. It was as if someone cut out a picture of Shiro and glued it to the all the snapshots of their lives.

Which Lance knew was an unreasonable feeling, because Keith was allowed to have other friends and Shiro had technically been there first, but _still_.

He tried to put it out of his mind as he rummaged through his closet, pulling out shirts, looking at them with dissatisfaction, and discarding them on his bed.

“Do you guys think I look better in green or blue? Or maybe red?”

“You look great in everything!” said Hunk.

“Well, obviously. But you’re not helping.”

“Just pick whatever. I doubt Keith’s the type of guy to care much about fashion,” said Pidge.

“Say that when I wear The Pants,” said Lance, waggling his eyebrows.

“Ooo,” said Hunk. “The Pants.”

The Pants were a pair of black skinny jeans that made his ass look great, which was why he reserved them for dates. This was not, technically, a date, but it was Keith, so.

After a few more minutes of Lance’s rummaging and grumbling about having nothing to wear, Hunk spoke up.

“So, when are you going to stop being a dick to Shiro?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb,” said Pidge.

“I’m not a _dick_ to him.”

“You’re not exactly nice either,” said Hunk. “He’s a nice guy so he’ll take it, but you shouldn’t do that, man.”

“I’m not—” Lance started to say, but didn’t want to lie.

“I know it’s hard seeing Keith be so close to another guy, but you shouldn’t take that out on Shiro,” said Pidge, voice gentle.

“Yeah,” said Hunk. “Jealousy’s hard, but you’ve only known him a week and he’s already like your worst enemy, right after the racist guy in your lit class, that one girl who got a higher grade than you on your last midterm, and the barista who calls you ‘Lenny.’ Oh, and the squirrel who stole your sandwich last week.”

“I know,” Lance groaned. “It’s just so hard when I see him and his perfect face and his perfect body and his perfect personality and he Keith would just make the perfectest couple. Ugh.”

“I really don’t think they like each other like that,” said Pidge. “In any case, just make up with him. I’m sure he’d be very nice about it.”

“Yeah,” said Hunk. “And do it soon, ‘cause we like him a lot. We want him in the squad.”

“ _What_?” said Lance.

Pidge nodded enthusiastically. “Shiro’s the best. We need him in our friend group.”

“He gives like, the best hugs, man!” said Hunk.

“Right?! I feel like I’m being enveloped by a warm, friendly bear.”

“And he gave me a piggyback ride the other day! It was awesome! Do you know how hard it is to find someone who can lift me? But he did it like it was nothing!” Hunk sighed happily. “I felt like a five-year-old again.”

“What? I never got a piggyback ride,” said Pidge, frowning.

“Oh, and he’s the only one who likes my homemade kale chips! He says they’re ‘crunchy and delightful.’” Hunk beamed.

“You know he gave me this scarf the other day? He said I was looking chilly so he knitted me one. He even sewed my name into the tag.” Pidge held up the end of her scarf. “Look! Look! That’s my name!”

“Shiro is so great,” said Hunk.

“He’s perfect,” said Pidge.

They both leaned their head in their hands, sighing dreamily.

Lance gave them a flat look. “You’re both dead to me. Goodbye.”

“Aw, come on, Lance!” said Hunk, getting off the bed to hug him.

“Yeah,” said Pidge, rubbing his arm apologetically, “we can’t help it if Shiro is the most perfect human being who ever lived.”

She and Hunk laughed while Lance gave them a dirty look, rubbing cologne on his neck.

/

When they met at the bus stop, Keith leaned in towards Lance and sniffed.

Lance stumbled backwards, grabbing onto the bench. “W—what’re are you doing?!”

“You smell different.”

“Oh, uh, ha! that’s—I put on some cologne.”

“Huh.”

Lance sniffed his wrist. “Does it smell bad?”

“Not really.”

After a bus ride, they arrived at the movie theatre, where Lance slapped Keith’s wallet away and paid for their tickets.

“I’m thirsty. We should’ve bought sodas,” Lance whispered when they sat in their seats.

Keith reached into his jacket and pulled out a large cup of boba, the familiar “V” logo on the seal and side.

“What the fuck?” said Lance.

“What? You don’t sneak boba into the movies?”

“No?”

“That’s just foolish,” Keith said, sipping.

“Hey, give me some!”

Keith reached into the other side of his jacket and pulled out another cup.

“Oh my fucking god,” said Lance, taking it. “How did you even fit that in there?”  He stabbed his straw in (not spilling any tea— _Yes!_ ) and tried it. “Ooo, this is good. What is this?”

“Jasmine milk tea with grass jelly.”

Lance hummed as he sipped, pleased.

“That’s Shiro’s favorite, actually,” Keith added.

He stopped humming and put the drink down.

Lance’s resolve lasted ten minutes, after which he resumed sipping, but resentfully.

The sullenness was wiped from his face when Keith laughed softly beside him.

“The movie is so dumb,” Keith whispered, shoulders still shaking.

“ _You’re_ dumb. This movie is a classic!”

Keith laughed louder. “It’s stupid as hell.”

Lance wanted to pout and glare, but the way his heart stuttered at Keith’s open grin wouldn’t let him. It was so rare to see him smile like this, especially when the last two weeks had been nothing but studying for finals and working. When was the last time he had seen Keith’s full-body laugh?

The light of the movie screen washed out his already pale skin, leaving it more unnatural than even the miserable pallor of his face when he was more overworked and sleep-deprived than usual—except this didn’t make him look miserable. The reflection of the screen lit up his eyes, normally so dark and opaque, and turned them animated and lively.

Lance couldn’t look away. It struck him then that despite Keith’s honesty and the rapidity with which they became friends, there was so much he didn’t know about Keith yet, so many sides to him that he hadn’t seen.

Maybe that was why Shiro bothered him so much. Even without all of his annoying perfection, he knew Keith. He knew him intimately long before Lance ever knew Keith existed, had probably seen Keith through his worst and best times, knew the things that kept him up at night, understood all his fleeting expressions and inscrutable stares, pulled a smile out of him like it was abundant as grass.

Everything Lance wanted.

“You’re staring,” Keith whispered. Amusement pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Lance huffed, a little out breath at the sight, and couldn’t help smiling back despite his painful musings.

/

When the movie was over, the remaining daylight was fading into a deep, sleepy blue. They walked aimlessly down the boulevard, arguing about the movie and stopping to look at various shops until they found themselves a few blocks away from the beach, watching the crowded pier all lit up in the distance. They sat down on the bus stop bench, waiting.

Lance breathed in the salty air, stretching his arms.

“Wouldn’t it have been nice to go to school in a city like this?” Lance said wistfully. “We could do our homework on the beach.”

“Hell no. I burn easily. And sand would get everywhere,” said Keith.

Lance laughed and slapped his back. “Always so cheerful. You’re right though: you’re severely lacking melanin.”

He pinched Keith’s pale arm and laughed when Keith slapped his hand away.

“You’re not satisfied with our school?” said Keith.

“No, I am,” said Lance. “I’d wanted to go there for a long time. It surprised my family, but—you know. I wanted to go.”

“Why would it surprise your family?”

Lance scratched the back of his neck. “Ha, well, my parents are professors at a certain other school. You got three guesses, and the first two don’t count!”

Lance said that last line with too much levity, his voice going slightly too high.

“Is it really a big deal?” said Keith. “I mean, rival universities aren’t exactly Montague and Capulet.”

“No, it’s not. It just would’ve been a lot cheaper to go there since children of staff and faculty get discounted tuition, and it’s hard enough paying for my sister’s degree. And in a few years my little brother will be in college too, so that’s three kids to pay for. I mean, my parents never complain or anything, but—” Lance laughed, and it was neither the genuine nor nervous laughter Keith had become accustomed to. It jarred him. “It was pretty selfish of me to come here, actually.”

Keith was silent for a long time, wondering what to say. His automatic reaction was, _“You’re not selfish,”_ but that wasn’t quite right, and Lance had probably heard it a million times. It was good—needed, even—to be reminded and reassured at times, but—

“Is it so bad that you were selfish?”

Lance looked at him, startled.

“I mean, I think—” Keith looked up as if he were stargazing, but there weren’t any stars there. “I imagine that your parents wouldn’t begrudge you for something like that. I think they’d want you to be a little selfish, sometimes.” He turned to Lance. “But I don’t know. You know your parents better than I do. What’re they like?”

“They—they love me a lot,” said Lance. “They don’t—they tease me sometimes. But they never gave me grief about my decisions.”

Keith got the sense that there was more to this than the fear of being a financial burden, but perhaps that was another talk for another night.

“You really think it’s okay to be selfish?” Lance said, voice quiet.

Keith nudged his knee with his own. “Yeah.”

They sat like that, silent, knees touching, until the bus approached.

Lance bit his lip as he looked at the oncoming headlights. The sky was almost fully dark, but this wasn’t the last bus of the night yet.

“Hey, you want to go the beach?”

/

After a few meters, Keith gave in and took off his shoes. A quiet exhale escaped him when his bare feet hit the cool sand.

Lance had rolled up his jeans past his ankle and run straight into the water with his arms spread. He left Keith to chase after him, which Keith firmly refused to do for approximately two minutes before dashing at full speed.

They didn’t go in deep to avoid getting their clothes wet, the water only reaching their ankles, but they kicked at it and splashed each other anyway.

Keith’s words still echoed in Lance’s mind.

“Man, why are you so well-adjusted? Aren’t you supposed to be emotionally stunted?” said Lance.

“Ugh. Years of Shiro making me talk about my feelings and reassuring me and encouraging me. Bullshit like that.”

“Ha. Of course.”

Keith stilled, all lightness gone. “Why don’t you like Shiro?”

“What?” said Lance, not looking at him. “What are you talking about? He’s a great guy.”

“Yeah, he _is_ a great guy. So why are you so unhappy when he’s around? Why do you fake a smile every time I bring him up?”

Lance stopped kicking the water.

Of course, of _course_ Keith had noticed. Keith was always staring, always seeing, always catching every little thing. Why would Lance ever think he wouldn’t know?

“Do I have to like him? Does everyone have to like him?”

“No. But you have a problem with him, and he’s my best friend and you’re my friend, so I want to know. Did something happen between you two?”

“Nothing happened,” said Lance, back still turned to him, and started kicking the water again. “He’s just—he’s _such_ a great guy, you know. And you guys are _such_ good friends, and you care about each other _so_ much. And I know it’s shitty of me, but—god.”

Keith’s wanted to groan in frustration, but didn’t want to set off Lance.

“I don’t get what you’re saying. Yeah, he’s great, and—I care about him about him a lot, and he cares about me. What’s the problem?”

Lance turned around, and Keith’s eyes widened at the pained look on his face.

“ _I_ care about you!”

Keith’s breath halted. He licked his lips, and remembered to breathe again. “I know. I know that. I care about you too.”

Lance’s fists unclenched. Keith’s gaze was unwavering, confused but gentle, and all the tension left Lance’s body.

“Shit,” he whispered.

He was being so ridiculous. Keith was understanding even when he didn’t understand, and Lance was spewing nonsense and causing him distress. Keith cared about him, and—wasn’t that supposed to be enough? Even if they never had a chance at something more?

Lance let out a shaky breath. The breeze swept Keith’s hair over his forehead, and his soft mouth was parted as if he wanted to say something, to say the right words, but couldn’t. Lance’s throat was tight with regret and stupid adoration.

When he walked to the pier, Keith followed.

The surrounding chatter of the bustling people on the pier and the view of the ocean over the railing soothed him. He knew Keith was still behind him, waiting, but he didn’t know how to explain himself without confessing everything. How was he supposed to say that—he couldn’t even think about it. Keith had been surprisingly patient, but Lance couldn’t expect that their friendship would be the same if he confessed the real reason for his jealousy.

The image of Keith, awkwardly turning him down, backing away, averting his eyes, was too much.

Lance turned around, the solid rail against his back holding him up.

“Sorry,” said Lance. “I was—jealous of Shiro. That’s why I acted like that.”

“Why?” said Keith, brows furrowed.

“Because! He’s y—so perfect. Everything about him. His stupid biceps and knitting. Like, _Ooo, look at me, I’m so nice to everyone all the time and I go to the gym and I ate a vegetable this week and probably speak five languages and fart daisies and look like fucking Hercules_. It’s like, how can I live up to that? It pisses me off.”

“But why would you have to live up to Shiro?” said Keith. “And he’s not perfect.”

Lance scoffed.

“Seriously,” said Keith. “Shiro’s not perfect. He farts in his sleep and trust me, it’s not fucking daisies. You know in high school he was suspended for getting caught having—wait, are you telling me you haven’t eaten a single vegetable this week?” Lance shrugged “What the—okay, no, that’s not the point. The point is that he’s not perfect. He’s pretty damn kind but he doesn’t have endless stores of niceness or patience. He’s even petty, once in a blue moon. And yeah, he’s good-looking. So what? Who the hell cares?”

“It’s just—it’s hard to compete with that!”

“Why do you have to compete?” Keith threw up his hands. “Where’s the competition?!”

Lance couldn’t say the truth, so he mumbled, “Nowhere.” Then, so quietly Keith almost couldn’t hear it over the chatter, “I just look at him and I feel like a whole lotta nothing.”

Keith unconsciously took a step forward, hand reaching out for a moment before he caught himself.

“Lance. You’re nice and smart and hardworking, and you make everyone you meet laugh, so who cares if you can’t speak five languages or bench press 350 pounds?”

“…Shiro can bench press 350? Damn.”

“Lance!”

“Sorry.”

They didn’t know what to say. Keith turned to the direction of the city.

“We should go if we want to catch the last bus.”

They walked side-by-side, shoulders bumping into each other when jostled against the crowd. Lance pressed a hand against Keith’s back, steadying and pushing him forward until Keith was in front of him. Keith let him.

“…You really think I’m nice and smart and hardworking and funny?”

Keith sighed. “Inexplicably, yes.”

“You didn’t mention my dashing good looks though. I mean, I’m not the freaky supermodel type like you or Allura, but I’m still hot. I got still it goin’ on.” Lance nudged his back. “Hey, I’m pretty good-looking, right? Right?”

Keith looked over his shoulder.

Lance’s mouth was curved in a cheeky grin, eyes glinting. The reflection of the colorful lights decorating the booths and amusement park rides glowed on his face, red and yellow and green and blue flashing against his brown skin. A wisp of hair atop his head wobbled, adorably, in the wind, and above the collar of his shirt, wrinkled from Lance pulling on it too much, were ever-so-slightly uneven collarbones, once broken years ago and healed crooked. Keith could trace them with his fingers. The long column of his throat, the jut of his adam’s apple, the ears that Lance complained stuck out too far, the soft hair that curled around them. His curved mouth, his pointed nose, his clear eyes.

Keith turned back around so Lance wouldn’t see him smile. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“You’re all right, I guess.”

“Hey!”

/

The next day, Lance tried to creep past the librarian, willing the ice in his boba cup to stop sloshing and making noise.

“Hey!” said Coran. “What you got there, huh? You don’t get to bring any more drinks in this library after the Thai tea incident last week.”

“Please!” said Lance, pulling the cup from his jacket. “Just this once. It’s not even for me, promise! It’s for my friend Shiro, since I wanted to—”

“Oh, it’s for _Shiro_? Why didn’t you say so? Go on then!”

Lance’s eye twitched. He stuck out his tongue at Coran when he wasn’t looking and stomped up the stairs.

“Heeey, Shiro,” said Lance. “Whatcha doing?”

“Hey Lance,” said Shiro, looking up from his book with a welcoming smile that made Lance feel guilty. “I’m just reading.”

“I brought you boba. It’s your favorite: jasmine with grass jello.”

“Jelly.”

“Yeah, that.”

“Thank you!”

“So, ha,” said Lance, sitting down and drawing circles with his finger on the wooden table, “I came to apologize for being, er, less-than-friendly with you since we met. I didn’t mean—I was kind of a dick. So, sorry.”

Shiro smiled at him, warm and sincere, and Lance felt even guiltier.

“Totally forgiven,” said Shiro. “I wasn’t really mad about it anyway. I know you were just—well, you know. I understand.”

Lance narrowed his eyes at him. “What?”

“Uh, never mind.”

“No, what? Do you—”

_Do you know I have a massive crush on your best friend?_

The look on Shiro’s face answered for him.

Lance groaned. “Oh my _god_.”

“I’m not going to tell Keith!” Shiro rushed to say. “Really. Don’t worry.”

Lance buried his face in his hands. “How did you know?”

“It was”—Shiro looked for a words other than “obvious to anyone with working eyes or ears”—“apparent to me after careful observation. I’m sure he doesn’t know, so you really have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Do you”—Lance licked his lips—“do you know if he… likes me at all? Like that? Just a little bit?”

Shiro looked at him sadly. “Sorry, I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it yet, and even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you Keith’s secrets. If he does like you, he should tell you himself.”

“Yeah,” said Lance. “Yeah, you’re right. I just—” He sighed.

Shiro rubbed his shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

“Anyway, I’m glad we’re good now. Sorry again.”

“It’s all good,” said Shiro, standing up and holding his arms out. “Let’s hug it out.”

“What? Uh, no thanks, I’m good—”

“Come on.” Shiro gestured towards himself. “It’s the rule.”

Lance stood, then hesitantly leaned into him. Warm, firm arms enveloped him.

Damn, Shiro really did give the best hugs.

“Shit, I feel like I’m in my mother’s womb again,” said Lance.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“What are you two doing?”

They jerked apart.

“Keith! I was just having a heart-to-heart with Shiro. You know, normal guy stuff.”

Keith didn’t give him a searching look, so he probably guessed that Lance had apologized.

“Aren’t you going back today?” said Keith.

“Yeah, my parents are picking me up in an hour. Just wanted to say bye before I left. You’re staying here for the break, right?” He turned to Shiro. “When are you going back, Shiro?”

“Oh, I’m staying here too. I’m crashing at Keith’s apartment.”

Lance tried to ignore the stab of jealousy. “Sounds fun. Well, I’ll see you guys in a few weeks.”

Shiro gave him another hug as they said goodbye, and then he was left standing awkwardly in front of Keith. His fingers twitched. Keith was toned but much thinner than Shiro, and a little shorter than Lance himself. What would hugging him feel like?

He settled for clasping his upper arm, squeezing and feeling the warm skin through Keith’s sleeve as he said goodbye.

He was at the bottom of the stairs when footsteps came rushing behind him.

“Hey,” said Keith, not even a little out of breath unlike Lance ( _curse him_ ). He held out a box wrapped in shiny red paper with a smashed bow on top. “In case we don’t see each other over the break.”

Lance stared at it in wonder.

“You got me a Christmas present?”

“Unless you don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“No, I do,” said Lance, snatching it like he thought someone could swoop in and take it from him. “Thank you.”

Then, after a few moments, he handed it back.

“What’s wrong?” said Keith.

“I’ll visit you,” said Lance, an unbearably warm feeling in his chest. He swallowed. “Over the break—I’ll visit you. My parents would probably be mad if I left before Christmas, but—after? I’ll see you after Christmas, and you can give it to me then. I mean, if that’s cool.”

“Yeah,” said Keith. “That’d be cool.”

After a while of staring at each other, they realized another person had been there the whole time behind the counter.

Coran looked between the two as he clutched a book to his chest, riveted.

“Do you need something?” said Lance.

“Oh! Right, yes,” said Coran. “Keith, the book you requested came in today.”

A little gasp left Keith’s mouth, which made Lance’s eyes go wide. Keith swiped it before Lance could see the cover, tucking it into his jacket.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” said Keith.

With a sly grin, Lance grabbed Keith’s jacket. “Let me see!”

“No, get away!”

Keith slapped Lance’s arms away. They tussled until Lance realized his hand was pressed against Keith’s chest and he pulled away. His palms tingled.

Lance narrowed his eyes at Keith, ignoring the the way his cheeks burned.

“You better watch out,” said Lance.

“Pfft. Whatever. You wouldn’t even have enough strength to pry this book from my dead hands.”

This sparked another argument until Coran shushed them, forcing Lance to go outside and Keith to go back upstairs.

When he was out the door, Lance leaned back against the wall, exhaling deeply and waiting for his pulse to settle. He bit his lip, unable to help his grin, and counted down the days until Christmas was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urgh, this chapter was meant to also encompass their winter break shenanigans, but it went on longer than I expected, so that'll be next chapter I guess. Sorry! I hope this isn't too boring or slow. Thank you for reading! :)


	3. Peppermint milk tea with red beans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No offense to Marton, full offense to NorCal.
> 
> ~4.4K words

The excitement of planning to meet Keith after Christmas transformed into horror when he realized that he hadn’t gotten Keith anything.

The message _“see you on the 26th”_ on his phone ate at him.

He had been thinking about it, of course, wondering for weeks if he should get Keith a present (and if so, what), but he thought it might be too much. He had convinced himself that Keith wouldn’t get him anything, and Keith said he didn’t really celebrate Christmas anyway.

Yesterday he had scoured the mall, pushing past the crowds of people and rummaging through every decent store he could find—the whole experience was like preparing for the apocalypse in one of those movies that Luke always dragged him to. The easiest answer was clothes, but like Pidge had noted earlier, Keith didn’t really seem to care about fashion. He usually wore a plain T-shirt and jeans, and was perfectly content with his old red jacket.

He also didn’t seem to be particularly obsessed with anything either, not like Hunk and Lance’s love of _Star Wars_ or Pidge’s addiction to MMORPGs or Allura’s surprising mania over hockey. Hell, even in the short time he’d known Shiro (and he hadn’t even liked him!), Lance had learned that he had a major weakness for furry animals and religiously watched _Grey’s Anatomy_.

But Keith? He didn’t seem to have any hobbies. He never talked about his favorite TV shows or movies or books or musicians.

It hit him once again that he didn’t know Keith as well as he craved.

“You’re not finished yet?” Lina called from the door. “Hurry up! Lucas needs help with his calc homework.”

“Calm yourself,” said Lance, not looking up from his phone. The lawn was still covered in dried leaves.

“Who are you texting?” she said, tone teasing and scandalous.

“No one,” he said.

She ran over and leaned her chin on his shoulder, trying to get a look, then grabbed his phone and held it up so he couldn’t reach.

“Hey!”

“Keith Poop Emoji Devil Emoji,” she read. She grinned. “The beautiful and illicit boba man?”

Lance rolled his eyes, still trying to pry the phone from her hands but falling an inch too short. “Don’t make him sound like some femme fatale.”

“I can’t believe he got you to quit coffee. Although you know a boba addiction is way bad for you, right?”

“I didn’t say it was a _good_ replacement,” said Lance. “Pidge and Hunk made me quit. I didn’t want to. I’m not even addicted to boba, I’m just—”

“Addicted to him?”

“You repulse me.”

“Show me a picture of him! I couldn’t find his Facebook,” she said. She scrolled through the messages and snorted at Keith’s short, straightforward texts.

“He doesn’t have one; he’s a weird isolated freak who doesn’t take selfies.”

“Then how am I supposed to internet stalk your new boyfriend?”

“Pfft, get in line. I’ve been trying since day one,” said Lance. “And he is _not_ my—”

“But you wish he were.”

Lance said nothing.

“Oh shit, is that a sore spot? I’m sorry,” said Lina, giving him back his phone and wrapping her arms around him from behind.

“It’s cool,” Lance mumbled, replying to Keith’s text. “It’s not like—whatever. Anyway, can you help me find a gift for Keith? I can’t think of anything and we’re meeting in two days and he probably got me the perfect gift because he’s like, good at everything, and then I’ll give him some crappy gift and feel like an absolute jackass and—”

She pinched his lips together, silencing him and making him look like a duck.

“Worry not, I will help you. After you finish raking the leaves and helping Luke with his homework and cleaning my room, we’ll find the perfect gift.”

“Thanks,” said Lance, a little relieved. “Wait—the fuck? Clean your own room!”

/

He was cleaning Lina’s makeup brushes and cursing her under his breath (she lay in her bed, flipping through a book and humming cheerfully) when he remembered.

He dropped the brushes on the vanity and pulled out his phone, biting at the frayed friendship bracelet on his wrist.

“What’s up?” said Lina. “You get another text from your boy?”

“No, I’m checking my grades,” said Lance, words muffled as his teeth chewed at the bracelet. He tapped his fingers on the vanity as the page loaded. Then his shoulders slumped, bracelet released from his teeth.

“All good?”

“I got a C-plus in physics,” said Lance.

“Hey, that’s good!”

“Have you ever gotten a C-plus in your life?” said Lance.

“God no.”

After the sullen set of his mouth twisted into something more bitter, she took mercy on him, patting his head and dragging him to the kitchen, where she pushed a large slice of cherry pie in front of him as they discussed what to get Keith. Somehow, though, it devolved into stalking Shiro’s Instagram, looking for pictures of him because Lina wouldn’t stop until she knew what he looked like.

“Oh my god, he _is_ hot. Damn,” she said.

“Ew, you nasty old lady.”

“I’m 24!”

“What are you guys doing?” said Lucas, sticking his head in the door. “Who’s that?” He rushed over and kneeled on the floor between them, pulling the laptop closer. “Oh, Keith? Your boyfriend? Wow, he’s way too hot for you.”

Lina smacked him upside the head.

“Ow!”

“Don’t be mean.” She swept her hair off her shoulder. “And you know good looks run in the family.”

Lance and Luke nodded. “True, true.”

They sat around trying to find Keith in Shiro’s pictures and some hint of what he might like, then moved onto Allura’s, but the photos were scarce.

“Maybe you could write him a poem?” said Luke.

“Why doesn’t he just write ‘I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES’ on his forehead then?” said Lina. “You really need to learn some subtly.”

“Hey, it always works for me,” said Luke, brushing his shoulder and smirking.

“That’s because the girls you date are 17 and still bust a nut over your Neruda act. Enjoy it before you all get older and they realize that your vagina flower metaphors aren’t the height of romance and sophistication.”

“Hey, my metaphors are complex, damn it! And I am _not_ Neruda. I’m more of an e.e. cummings, or a García Lorca.”

Something started flashing on the computer.

“Oh, he’s calling me for a video chat. Can you guys leave us alone for a—”

Luke clicked _ACCEPT_ and yelled, “Hi Keith! Do you like love poetry? I mean, everybody loves poetry.”

“Oh my fucking god, I’m going to kill you,” Lance hissed under his breath.

“What?” said Keith.

“Nothing,” said Lance. “This my dumbass brother Luke and my sister Lina.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Lina.

“Uh, hi,” said Keith, eyes darting between the three and looking like a wary animal.

“Ignore them. What’s up?”

“Nothing, I just got back from work. Uh, I can call back another time—”

“No!” said Lance. “It’s fine. You can ignore my—”

“Who are you all talking to?” his mother said.

Lina turned around and whispered, “It’s Lance’s crush.”

Lance covered the camera. “Can you all please just go?!”

His father walked in, eye catching the monitor.

“Honey, it’s Lance’s crush,” his mother whispered.

/

Lance’s family was… interesting.

Keith didn’t speak save for a few short answers, mostly sitting in silence as they talked (shouted? enthused?) at him. When Lance said his parents were professors and his siblings consisted of a PhD student and a poetry-obsessed writer, he had expected more reserved, constantly pensive people. He had pictured Lance, who was loud and always cracking jokes, as something of a black sheep among a serious family.

But watching his father grin and pat Lance’s shoulder while his little brother pushed his sister’s face away for insulting him and Lance’s mother recounted the story of how he cried during freshman year because of homesickness, Keith saw Lance fit right in.

This family was warm, vibrant, and had no sense of personal space with each other. Lance in a nutshell.

It was a little overwhelming—having five people squeezed into Keith’s laptop screen and all talking at the same time made him grateful that he wasn’t there in person—but they were nice. It was a little puzzling when Lance seemed a tad genuinely upset, finally pushing them away for good so that they could talk alone.

“Uh, bye Mrs.—I mean, _Dr._ Álvarez. Dr. McClain.”

“Call us Laura and Arthur,” he said. “No need to be so formal, son.”

“Sorry about that,” said Lance when they were gone.

“I don’t mind. Your family seems nice.”

“If that’s the word you want to use. I would go with ‘always embarrassing’ and ‘won’t ever shut up.’”

“Aren’t you just describing yourself?”

Lance glared. Keith smiled.

They told each other about their days (Lance rolled his eyes when Keith just said “fine” as always), planning what they wanted to do when Lance would come over.

Then, as Keith remembered the way Lance’s parents told him to call them by their first names, he realized—“Wait, your dad’s name is ‘Arthur McClain’? And he’s a history professor?”

Keith left to rummage through his textbooks from last semester, then found the one he was looking for and flipped it over to see the back cover.

In the corner was a small photo of a middle-aged black man with shorter hair and fewer wrinkles than Lance’s father had in the video chat, but undoubtedly the same man.

“Yeah, that’s him,” said Lance as Keith held it up in front of the camera.

“Wow,” said Keith. “My professor raved about your dad’s work. I’ve cited him so many times in my papers, but I never realized you guys were the same McClain.”

“Yeah,” said Lance, rubbing the back of head. “He’s, uh, pretty impressive. My mom too. My whole family, really.”

Lina attended a PhD program on the east coast and was following in her father’s footsteps, and Lucas had just won a national poetry competition, which put his name in the _New York Times_. Lance seemed genuinely proud of and happy for his siblings, but he wouldn’t look Keith in the eyes as he talked about it.

They were one of those accomplished, impossibly perfect but still warm middle-class families Keith had always been a little in awe of, the rare ones that didn’t seem real. Allura’s family, when she had told Keith about them one night as they were closing, had been like that too, but then her parents died. Shiro’s family sometimes seemed like that on the surface, but secretly nobody got along.

But Lance’s—they were truly it. It was strange, like staring at a warm holiday movie.

They spent the rest of the evening talking about anything they could think of, reluctant to hang up. Lance probably wouldn’t be able to chat with him tomorrow since it would be Christmas Eve and the influx of relatives at his house would keep him busy. Keith and Shiro would spend the winter holidays like they always did, spending the afternoon at the beach if it wasn’t raining and the evening watching movies and eating takeout.

“Shiro doesn’t spend Christmas with his family?”

“He doesn’t really spend a lot of time with his family.”

Lance wanted to ask further but didn’t, and Keith didn’t seem like he wanted to say anything more about it.

After a while, Keith ran out of things to say, so he lay on the couch and listened while Lance talked. The sound of his voice was soothing; it was nice to have someone who didn’t take offense when Keith didn’t say anything. Lance understood that it wasn’t rudeness or lack of interest.

When midnight came and they finally said goodnight, the apartment was too quiet. Shiro had fallen asleep in his room, so Keith stretched out on the couch, still staring at his blank laptop screen.

/

_“I’m @ Voltron, shift just ended”_

Lance parked next to the familiar building, realizing he had never seen it so empty in broad daylight.

The bell jingled as he walked in, making Keith turn around.

“You have to work during the break?” said Lance. “There’s hardly anyone here.”

Keith shrugged. “Then I get paid for standing around and doing nothing.”

“That doesn’t sound very fun.”

Keith’s head tilted in confusion. “It’s my favorite hobby.”

Lance wanted to laugh, but Keith’s face was so straight he couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

They got into the car (“A gift from my parents for my 20th birthday,” Lance explained as he lovingly stroked his dashboard), and Keith had to give him directions to his apartment building. Lance had always assumed he lived in the apartments near campus, but they drove all the way to the outer edges of the city.

“Rent’s cheaper the farther you get from campus,” Keith explained. “Plus I hate the noise of all the frat houses.”

So Keith.

As he drove up to the building, he slowed down and leaned forward.

“Um, where do we go now?”

“What do you mean?” said Keith. “This is my apartment building.”

He pointed a thumb at the shoddy building. Several of the windows were broken, and the grass was all weeds and dirt. The sign had long been rubbed off, the inexplicable words “LITTLE FLORIDA” spray painted over it in elegant teal script. It looked abandoned. In fact, this whole street looked deserted, like—dare he say it?—a ghost town.

“It’s got _people_ in it?” Lance yelled. “How is that legal?”

“I don’t know. I just pay $325 a month and I don’t ask questions.”

“God, you just—wait,” said Lance as Keith unlatched the squeaky front gate. “$325 a month?”

“It’s $1300. I have two roommates, and for whatever reason they’re okay with paying more.”

“You never told me that.”

“They’re never around. Always busy. You know, it’s funny,” said Keith, looking Lance in the eyes as he unlocked his door, “I only ever see them between the hours of midnight and 1:30 a.m., on the dot.”

“On the dot?”

“On the dot.”

“Keith… do you know how creepy that is?”

“Why is that creepy? Take off your shoes.”

Lance looked around as he pulled his sneakers off. The inside was definitely nicer than the outside—there was minimal, mismatched furniture and random books lying around, like a regular college student’s apartment. Lance didn’t know why he had been expecting some kind of lair.

They found themselves sitting on the couch, just a few inches apart, silent and still.

Lance cleared his throat and finally unzipped his backpack, pulling out a meticulously gift-wrapped box (no bow, though—Lucas said that was too much).

“Here,” he mumbled.

“You first,” said Keith, shoving a small box in his hands.

“ _You_ first!”

“Fine,” said Keith.

“No, I wanna go first,” said Lance, tearing open the red wrapping.

Gingerly, he opened the lid of the box, ignoring the way Keith’s eyes bore into him.

Inside was a gleaming bracelet of black, spherical stones. He picked it up between his index finger and thumb, as if it would break if he wasn’t gentle. He tugged twice—it was sturdy.

 _He got me jewelry_.

The thought entered his mind unwillingly and made his cheeks warm, and he felt ridiculous for even thinking of the imaginary implications.

But no one, including any of his past boyfriends and girlfriends, had ever gotten him jewelry—unless you counted his grandma gifting him a cross necklace every few years with a grave expression on her face, asking him if he’d been going to church every week.

He was pretty sure Keith wasn’t a devout Catholic, though.

Lance slipped on into his left wrist along next to his old, worn bracelets.

“I commissioned it from my friend,” said Keith when Lance didn’t say anything. “She’s an art student.”

“Wow, you have _more_ friends?”

“You know what? I’m taking back my gift.”

He got within an inch of the bracelet before Lance slapped his hand away.

“It’s made of obsidian,” said Keith. “It’s supposed to ward away ghosts and bad spirits.”

Keith grinned in amusement, clearly making fun of him. Lance’s mouth twisted in an effort to not to smile.

“Plus it won’t fray when you chew it on it.”

Lance looked down at his old bracelets, chewed to death from his lifelong nervous habit. For the past few months he had been trying to stop, though—he didn’t think he ever did that in front of Keith.

He swallowed. “Thanks. Now open yours.”

Keith carefully tore the wrapping paper (Lance really should’ve gone with a bow after all) and opened the box, lifting up the pastel pink camera inside.

Keith recognized it as one of those modern polaroids that every middle-class hipster he knew owned, sold at Urban Outfitters for the cost of seventeen and a half bobas.

“You never take pictures on your phone, and you’re a freak who doesn’t take selfies, so I figured, you know… And I wanted to get you a red one, but pink was the closest I could find.”

“Thanks,” said Keith.

They said in awkward silence for a minute, not knowing why it was awkward, until Keith held up the camera and said,

“You wanna take a picture?”

He pulled Lance closer and took a picture of them, Lance making a goofy face and Keith looking inappropriately serious.

“What do I with it now?” said Keith, looking at Lance in genuine confusion.

He laughed. “I don’t know—you hang it or frame it or something.”

Keith thought for a moment, then got up and pushed aside the sheet hanging on his wall to reveal part of a cork board behind it. He pinned it in the corner.

“I thought that was a window,” said Lance. “Whatcha got there?”

“Just notes, for school projects and stuff.”

If he hadn’t spent the past three months scrupulously staring at Keith’s face and taking in every intonation of his voice, he wouldn’t have been able to tell that Keith was lying. It was the too-quick readiness of his answer and the split second eye contact that gave him away.

A slow smile crept across Lance’s face.

“I think this is the first time you’ve ever lied to me.”

Keith took a step backwards, hovering closer to the sheet-covered board.

After a few minutes of struggling, they were both on the floor, and Lance managed to tear the sheet off the wall.

He blinked, then squinted, then looked at Keith, who was looking at the window.

“Is there something you wanna tell me, buddy?”

“What?” said Keith. “I’m just doing some research. Scientific research. About astrobiology.”

Lance pointed at the board. “That’s a picture of E.T.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “That’s just a concept photo.”

Lance rested his chin in his hands, covering his mouth as he took it all in. Keith was not joking. He was really, really not joking.

“So you’re a conspiracy theorist,” said Lance.

“ _No_ ,” said Keith. “I don’t like that term. I’m just studying up on extraterrestrial life.”

“Keith, sweetheart,” said Lance, clapping both of Keith’s cheeks between his hands, “aliens aren’t real.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You believe in _ghosts_ and extraterrestrial life isn’t possible?”

“You’re a fucking weirdo,” said Lance, stroking Keith’s hair like he was an upset child. “Which makes me feel a little better about myself in comparison, by the way. Thank you.”

Keith glared at him.

“So I guess you have a hobby after all,” said Lance. “It’s an unbelievably weird one, but good to know.”

Keith covered his board with the sheet again, Lance shaking his head, before they headed out.

“We have to pick up Allura from the airport.”

“What? She’s back already?”

She had come back from England early, not interested in spending any more time with her extended family. They weren’t bad, but it was all “a little much.” She didn’t explain further, changing the topic.

“Ooo, I just love visiting your flat, Keith,” she said when they arrived, clapping and giddy. “Makes me feel like I’m in a horror movie. So fun.”

Lance stared at her.

Keith looked flattered.

They spent the afternoon lounging on old lawn chairs by the pool in their bathing suits, sipping festive peppermint milk tea with red beans (“Who the _fuck_ puts beans in drinks?” Keith rolled his eyes. It turned out to be delicious and sweet, which Lance would not admit.) The pool was empty, just grime and rust (or what Lance really hoped was rust and not dried blood), but someone had put a kiddy pool inside of it, which was filled with clean water.

Allura didn’t talk much about her time in England, instead asking Keith if he was enjoying the book Coran ordered for him (it was called _The Eerie Silence: Renewing Our Search for Alien Intelligence_ —of course), mentioning that Coran was having a nice time in Marton (which had to be a lie, she said, because no one ever had a nice time in Marton) and wished she had come.

At Lance’s confusion, Allura said, “Oh, I never told you? Coran is my uncle.”

“Your _uncle_? But—he’s… you know…”

“White?”

“I was gonna say not British.”

Shiro didn’t come until it got dark, bringing Chinese takeout for them to eat by the pool. It was a strange holiday tradition, but Keith, Allura, and Shiro didn’t think anything of it. It was normal for them.

It was like Lance had been invited into their secret club, where they eschewed spending the holidays with their families for chow mein by an empty pool in a half-abandoned building. It was such a different vibe—he had never spent winter break away from his family, and he’d guess that Pidge and Hunk hadn’t either. His house was always brightly lit and crowded with family and smelled of cinnamon during Christmas, but here the only Christmas was the peppermint coating his throat. The four of them—the only four people in the entire city, it felt—sat in their bathing suits around the paper containers of food, faces lit only by the setting sun and a few lamps. The wind bit at his arms, and he all he could smell was Chinese food and chlorine and everyone’s shampoo. This was a cool-toned intimacy he had never known. Voices and laughter rung like glass bells in the empty air.

Shiro and Keith must’ve spent every Christmas like this, and Allura must’ve been joining them for the past few years.

He didn’t feel excluded, but he suspected that there was something about them—this—that he didn’t understand.

“Are you cold?” said Keith, noting his shivering.

“No.”

“It’s only 65 degrees,” said Keith, throwing Lance his red jacket. “How are you cold?”

He draped it around himself, feeling like a elegant lady with her paramour’s suit jacket around her shoulders, except it was a tacky thing from the ‘80s and probably hadn’t been washed in five weeks. “How are you _not_?”

Keith shrugged. “Bay area’s colder.”

Lance’s chopsticks paused, his mouth open.

“Wait,” said Lance. “You’re from NorCal?”

“Yeah?”

Lance slowly shook his head. “That explains so much.”

“What is _that_ suppose to mean?”

“You know what it means. Ugh, first you’re a weirdass alien conspiracy theorist and now you’re from NorCal. How are we friends?”

“Oh, you showed him the board? How nice!” said Shiro.

“Isn’t it meticulous?” said Allura. “Very impressive.”

“I don’t understand,” Lance whispered to himself.

After a while, Shiro and Allura glanced at each other and announced they were going to bed. Lance’s eyes went wide—were Allura and Shiro a thing? Did they want alone time?

And then he realized they were looking at him.

 _Oh_.

/

Their feet hung off the edge of the pool, thighs and shoulders just an inch apart. There was nothing left to say—or too much, but Lance couldn’t pick.

Then Keith’s head was resting on his shoulder, soft black hair tickling his jaw, and Lance froze.

It was tender moment if you ignored Lance’s eyes bugging out of his face and his mouthing _What is happening?_ at himself.

He stayed absolutely still, as if the slightest movement would make Keith lift his head and leave.

“Thanks for the camera,” said Keith, breaking the silence.

“Thanks for the bracelet,” Lance mumbled. He couldn’t get over the hair against his neck and face.

After steadying his breathing, Lance went over his options:

  1. Say he was tired and go to bed (The Coward’s Way).
  2. Tell Keith he had feelings for him (The Brave Romantic’s Way).
  3. Let his feelings manifest through more teasing (The Lance McClain Way).
  4. Kiss him and tell him his eyes were liquid amber in the moonlight (The Lucas McClain Way—not recommended because it was really corny, only had a 50% success rate, and Keith’s eyes were more dark chocolate, thanks).



What came out of his mouth was, “You wanna meet my family?”

A long pause. Lance continued, “We always do a New Year’s party. If you wanna come over. Allura and Shiro are invited too, of course.”

Another pause. Lance was about to rescind his offer when Keith said, “Okay.”

Keith didn’t lift his head from Lance’s shoulder, but he went stiff and didn’t say anything more than that. Lance had done something wrong. Or had he? It was impossible to tell.

He stared hard at the moonlight glinting in the water of the kiddy pool, wishing he knew—just for second—what went on in Keith’s head. He clenched his fist against the cement; the urge to chew on his bracelet was overwhelming. Had he given himself away?

He was not subtle about his feelings. Shiro knew within days of meeting him. Probably the entire Voltron staff and half the regular customers knew. That was his Achilles’ heel: he could never hide a damn thing. But Keith was so oblivious about it, he had felt safe.

Keith’s eyes, though, were sharp and cutting, even when it came to Lance. He had forgotten this. What did those eyes see of him? Or, more importantly, what would that mouth do to him if he knew?

A shiver ran through him, fear and something else pooling in his gut. He gave in and bit at his new bracelet, the obsidian cold and smooth against his tongue, hard against his teeth. His mouth was wet.

Keith glanced at it from the corner of his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally on winter break :'D Sorry it took forever to update--I can never manage to make time to write when I'm in school.
> 
> Thank you for reading, as always!
> 
> Also, please check out this [LOVELY AMAZING FANART BY JVVVK](http://jvvvk.tumblr.com/post/149944991142/au-where-keith-works-at-a-boba-place-and-lance). It is beautiful and I am so grateful, bye


	4. Cold brew black coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been - so long. I have no idea if anyone reads this anymore, but if you do, thank you!
> 
> ~6.4K words

“Did you eat a vegetable today?” said Arthur, refilling the pitcher with more eggnog.

“Yes, Dad,” Lance said, annoyed. “I had a broccoli.”

“Oh, good!”

Keith and Shiro shared a look.

 _“A broccoli?”_ Shiro mouthed. “One _broccoli?”_

“So, Keith,” said Lucas, biting into a mini quiche. “You got a girlfriend? Or boyfriend?” Keith shook his head. “Significant other? _Multiple_ boy-girl-significant-other-friends?” Keith stared, then shook his head again. “Friends-with-benefits? …Friends- _without_ -benefits? A dog?”

“Um.”

“Lucas!” said Lance.

“Seriously, dude, you look like a fucking Bernini sculpture—well, if he had made statues of Asian guys in Nikes,” said Luke. He leaned forward, lowering his voice: “You must be swimming in bit—”

“What he means is,” said Lina, “you seem like such a great guy.” Shiro smiled, patting Keith on the back. “You got a 9.6 out of 10 face, solid 8.4 out of 10 body, and an irresistibly unpleasant personality à la Fitzwilliam Darcy”—Keith raised an eyebrow while Shiro tried not to choke on his beer—“So why’re you single?”

Keith paused, confused, then shrugged and said, “Why are _you_ single?”

Lina turned to Lucas and whispered, “ _Oh, he’s good._ ”

/

People had started arriving at the house, and soon the New Year’s party would be in full swing—hence Lance and Keith taking refuge in a corner, silently passing judgment together on buzzed middle-aged college professors and bubbly suburban couples.

When it was approaching midnight and the living room got too loud, Keith asked for a tour of Lance’s bedroom.

“Oh! right. Um, it’s over here.”

Lance scrutinized Keith as Keith scrutinized his room, eyes sweeping over everything once, then again, before sitting on his bed. He silently thanked Past Lance for cleaning, but was now questioning every decorating decision he’d ever made (the burnt sienna accent wall? a minimalist poster of the periodic table? his floral bedspread?).

“Sorry about my brother and sister,” said Lance, rubbing the back of his head and sitting next to him. “They have no boundaries and have mild to moderate narcissism.”

“Your siblings are crazy rude,” said Keith. Lance cringed, about to apologize again. “But they mostly just keep finding different ways to tell me I’m hot, so I guess it’s okay.”

“Yeah, they’re a little bit obsessed with you, I guess.”

Keith raised his eyebrows, mouth crooked in a disbelieving smile. Lance cleared his throat.

Keith, mercifully, let it go. “Your brother said I look like a Bernini sculpture,” he said, eyes passing over the movie posters on the wall as he lay down.

“Well, you kinda do.”

Lance pressed his lips together, then awkwardly lay next to him, making sure to keep a few inches between them on the cramped twin bed. It was desperately difficult to ignore that he had the boy of dreams casually lying on his bed, or that said boy’s shirt had ridden up, revealing that the bastard was, in fact, toned there as well.

Much worse, though, was learning that the skin of his stomach was paler than the rest of him. Of course it was—it always covered and never exposed to the sun. Distantly Lance knew that everyone had uneven tans, and that he was being ridiculous and dramatic and lovesick—but that skin was so very naked.

“And your sister says my face is a nine out of ten,” said Keith, startling Lance out of his moment.

“Nine-point-six,” he corrected.

“What do _you_ think?”

“About what?”

“My looks.”

Lance’s eyes went wide as Keith turned his head to look at him.

His smile was carefree and teasing and everything lovely—and a touch vicious.

Lance swallowed, then opened his mouth, but his throat was dry and his words were caught on something jagged.

“Well?” he pushed, smiling wider. Lance had never noticed how sharp the points of his canines were, like the tip of a knife.

“I—I think—”

Keith waited.

“You, um—you know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

Lance struggled to inhale, face getting hot. “You look—”

Keith scooted towards him, just a few centimeters closer. A hot breath hit Lance’s cheek.

“—like an alien.” Lance pinched his nose, voice sounding nasally: “‘ _E.T. phone home._ ’”

Keith’s eyes widened a fraction, then he scoffed, lightly punching Lance’s shoulder. He sat up, hopping over Lance to get off the bed.

That must’ve been the wrong thing to say, Lance thought as he palmed the residual warmth on the covers. When he turned around, Keith was stretching, his wrinkled shirt riding up to let his waist peek through again. Lance was so fixated on it that he almost didn’t look up in time to see Keith’s graceful profile, expression as unreadable as ever.

But when Keith’s gaze shifted towards him, Lance swore he could see—annoyance?

Disappointment?

The door opened.

“Do you think I’m more of a cummings or García Lorca? But either way, _not_ Neruda, right?” Luke said, enthusiastically waving around his coffee cup.

“Hmm.” Shiro stroked his chin. “You know, your work actually remind me more of Sharon Olds.”

Luke gasped slowly. “Sharon Olds—of course! I didn’t think of her. I _am_ a Sharon Olds. That makes so much sense.” Luke clapped Shiro’s shoulder with warmth and awe. “God, you just get me.”

“But you know,” said Shiro, clapping his shoulder back, “above all, you’re a Lucas McClain. And that’s much more valuable than being a Neruda or cummings or García Lorca.”

Luke clutched his chest, unable to speak and eyes shining.

“Oh, for the love of—” Lance sighed, ignoring Luke’s worshipful gaze towards Shiro.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Luke, turning to Lance.

“This is _my_ room. You just walked into _my_ room.”

They sat around, making fun of each other (“You _have_ to sleep over, Keith,” Luke urged. “My brother has never had friends before, you see… My parents would be so excited.” He winked at Lance, mouthing _”you’re welcome”_ ).

Then Allura and Lina came bursting in, just past tipsy, and the room went to chaos. There was screaming and laughing and Cards Against Humanity, but they eventually settled, laying on the floor and on top of each other.

“Keith,” said Shiro, “I’m leaving soon and dropping off Allura. You want me to drop you off at your place?”

“What? No,” said Lance, then caught himself. “I mean, you can just sleep over. I’ll drive you back in the morning.”

“Uh.” Keith weighed his options while Shiro and Lance stared at him.

Lucas’s discerning eyes darted between three, wondering where the plot would go. When he turned to Lina, who was still buzzed, she was biting the end of a pencil and scrutinizing them like a detective would her murder suspects.

Allura tilted her head, confused, then belatedly tried to emulate the siblings’ deep fascination.

Keith’s eye twitched.

“Okay. Sure.”

/

People commented on his looks often, he supposed. But had never given it too much thought. It seemed nonexistent on his list of priorities—he’d much rather be rich or smart or healthy.

There was a lot of talk about bone structure, he pondered as he watched himself in the bathroom mirror, smearing the green paste over his cheekbones. And more talk about muscles and hair and symmetry. Good genes, or whatever.

Not much effort went into his appearance. He moisturized after showering (because Shiro said it was important for skin health) and combed his hair most days (because otherwise Allura would drag her fingers through it and remark, “What an interesting texture!”), but what and who was beautiful or ugly fell away into the background most of the time.

It was just a face. Over the years he had grown uninterested in what people had to say about it, neutral to even the most enthusiastic or sincere compliments.

But Lance never said anything at all.

He looked at him the same way that many people had looked at him in the past—friends that had confessed their feelings after years, gone from his life after a somber rejection; eager customers who slipped him their number with a tip; shy classmates who sat a few rows away, staring when they thought he wasn’t looking.

Yet Lance never said a thing about the way he looked (save to make fun of his “dorky ‘80s jacket”—it was _vintage_ and the most expensive piece of clothing he owned, thanks). It was refreshing, and Keith was grateful for it at first, but now—

His eyes narrowed.

_An alien?_

He scoffed.

“Hurry up!” Lance called from his bedroom. “You’re missing all the good parts.”

“I can’t move my face,” said Keith, expressionless as the mint face mask started to harden.

Lance, wearing a matching mask, tried to open his mouth wide enough to shove popcorn into it.

Lance shushed him. “I’m trying to hear. Those drunk old people are so loud.”

Keith sat next to him on the floor, staring at the TV show on the laptop before them ( _Grey’s Anatomy_ , he recognized with a roll of his eyes—“Shiro got me hooked!”).

“So do you hide out in your room and watch Netflix during your family’s New Year’s party every year?” Keith teased.

“Not always,” said Lance, watching a kernel drop to the floor, “but I know you hate crowds. Plus they just ask me about school and if I have a girlfriend, anyways. Annoying.”

Keith stared at him, eyes suddenly sharp and unnervingly dark against the pastel green.

Lance, sensing his gaze, tore his attention away from the screen. He didn’t even bother to ask why Keith was looking at him like that, though; Keith kept giving him weird looks lately (well, even more than usual), and Lance didn’t think he really wanted to know why.

His heart quickened at the thought.

“You really do look like an alien now,” he mumbled.

The corner of Keith’s mouth quirked.

At some point, they moved to the bed, lying down with the laptop between them. The show was still playing, but they were struggling to stay awake.

“Dude, I think Shiro is giving my brother his bi awakening?” Lance slurred.

“Hm?” Keith rolled over, eyes closed. “Oh, yeah. Shiro does that a lot.”

“Hey, Keith.”

“Mm?”

A beat. “Nothing. Hey, you still got your face mask on. Don’t fall asleep like that.”

“Mm.”

“Don’t fall asleep.” Lance half-heartedly smacked his shoulder. “It’s only 11:00.”

Keith pulled the blanket over his torso, eyes still closed. “Mhmm.”

Lance sighed (once again, out of disappointment or contentment he did not know).

Outside, the party was still a mosh pit of loud voices, ringing with energy, but here, under the covers and between two bodies, Lance could hear Keith’s breath even out and watch his mouth part ( _cute_ ). Soon his own eyelids were falling, falling, until all he could see was a blurry streak of strange green, and then nothing.

/

When he woke up, it was blindingly bright.

He groaned, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulder.

His laptop was still open but blank, and Keith was in the exact same position he’d fallen asleep in.

So peaceful. It was dead quiet in the living room now, too, and then he realized—

“Shit!”

_3:40 AM._

They had missed the turn to the new year. A faint sense of déjà vu washed over him before Keith startled it away with a sleepy groan.

“Hey, K—”

He should just let him sleep, he realized. Sleep was probably precious for Keith, the only respite he had between school and work. The little thing he had for himself, maybe, the relief he could drink in at night and only take little sips of during the day ( _a nap on the library couch in the afternoon, or dozing off in an easy class, or briefly closing his eyes as he stood behind the Voltron counter, lone and regal even in an apron as the sunlight hit his jaw just right_ ).

Of course, after twenty minutes of trying to fall back asleep and failing, Lance gave in.

“Wake up,” he whined, shaking Keith’s shoulders and watching the crease between his eyes come to life again. “I’m booored.”

/

“I cannot fucking believe you’ve never had coffee before. You’re like an infant.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “I’ve had coffee, I told you.”

Glass jars and porcelain clinked as Lance rummaged around the back of the fridge.  “A frappuccino? An iced latte from _McDonald’s_? Fuck off, Kogane.”

Keith was caught off guard by how unreasonably pleased he was at Lance’s use of his last name. A crooked grin graced his mouth.

“Oh, here it is!” Lance turned around with a mason jar, dark liquid sloshing inside. “You gotta hide your coffee in this house, or someone will drink it.”

“I don’t even like coffee.”

“You’ve never had it,” Lance repeated sweetly, like Keith was a toddler. He unscrewed the lid, then set the jar on the kitchen counter and grabbed two glasses, back turned to Keith. “This is a high quality low-acid cold brew. It’s, well, not very acidic, and you’re used to cold drinks; you’ll like it.”

“What will you give me if I don’t?”

Lance’s hands froze in the middle of screwing the lid back on. He blinked. His mind was blank (startlingly blank), but his stomach was doing flip flops and possibly caving in on itself.

He opened his mouth, but instead of saying something he just let it hang open.

He was imagining it. He had to be imagining this.

A quick inhale, and then, finally, “You will! It’s good.”

Keith brought the glass to his lips, and then—

Lance’s eyes were impossibly wide as he watched Keith—Keith Kogane, infamous beautiful barista man, nonchalant breaker of hearts, launcher of a thousand ships—contort and twist his face into something… unattractive.

 _Ugly_.

He was ugly-gagging.

“What the fuck did you just give me?!”

A laugh broke in Lance’s throat. “Bitch, that’s coffee!”

“ _Bitch_ , that’s tar!”

They bickered for a few more minutes before Lance got out the milk and creamer.

“It’s better, I guess,” Keith muttered, still sulking. “It’s so weird though.” He held up the glass, looking at the bottom.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just…” Keith swished the glass. “It’s got nothing in it. You know, no add-ons.”

Lance blinked, slowly. Hard.

“You want it to have… boba?”

“I mean, or jelly, or pudding or something.”

Lance slapped a hand over his mouth, but instead of laughing or teasing, he walked to the fridge and took out a container. He spooned a large chunk of flan into Keith’s cup, then dropped a straw in it.

“Better?”

Keith sipped, nodding with the straw in his mouth.

Lance shook his head, trying hard restrain a smile.

They chatted for a while, voices lowered now, about everything and nothing. The entire house was dark and dead silent, but they had their kitchen in the corner, quietly lively and dimly lit in yellow.

When they got to the subject of high school and the stupid shit they used to pull, Keith (hypocritically) made fun of Lance for always falling asleep in class and getting yelled at.

“It was _art_ class, okay,” said Lance. “And you know what, I was still valedictorian, so suck it.”

“Valedictorian?” Keith clicked his tongue. “Well aren’t you fancy.”

Lance laughed, pleased, but faltered for a bit, just for a half a second.

“What’s wrong?”

“What?” said Lance, caught off guard. “Nothing.”

“Really?”

“There were just these assholes I knew in high school—I just remembered them, that’s all.”

“Why were they assholes?” said Keith, brows drawing together.

“Uh.” There was a long pause, Lance deciding what he should do. Keith waited patiently. Lance scratched the back of his head. “There was just this white girl—ivy league type, always looked like she should’ve been wearing argyle—and everyone thought she was gonna be valedictorian. She never acted like she cared, but when time came around and she wasn’t, I guess she cried and her boyfriend got mad and—yeah, he and his friends were assholes.”

“What happened?”

And Lance tried to explain it in the least pathetic way, but there was no good way to say “Three guys cornered me when no one was looking and beat the crap out of me for the dumbest reason possible.” He threw in a casual laugh at the end, hoping to hide his humiliation and bitterness.

Judging by the brooding face Keith had on, he didn’t buy it.

When he spoke, it was in an unsettlingly calm, chill tone Lance had never heard from him before.

“Did that happen to you a lot?”

Lance shook his head. “That was the only time. Up until then, everything was—normal. No one bothered me before that. I’m not exactly the fighting type.”

“No,” Keith mused. “You don’t look it.”

“Hey, what’s _that_ supposed to mean?!”

Keith smiled. “You whined at me for an hour when you skinned your knee, and you almost broke your hand trying to punch Shiro’s punching bag. Not to mention you get jumpy when the squirrels on campus look at you. Also, you live in _this_ neighborhood, attended a magnet school, and your fridge tells me your family shops exclusively at Whole Foods. For dinner, you eat eight-dollar acaí bowls. You drive a Prius. In your dorm, you keep a—”

“ _All right_ , all right, I get it,” said Lance. “Goddamn. You really go in for the slaughter.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” he said, looking into his coffee and swirling the straw, “to not be the fighting type.” He looked up at Lance, taking in his face. “You weren’t meant to take hits.”

“Or throw them, apparently,” Lance muttered. “In my defense, Shiro’s punching bag is _really_ hard. Like, fucking rocks. And I go to the gym, okay? I lift.”

After a while they sat in comfortable silence, and Lance thought they were done talking about high school, but then Keith looked at him suddenly, raising an eyebrow.

“So… You want me to beat them up?”

Lance cracked a wide smile. “If you wanna storm onto frat row and pick a fight, I guess.”

“Wait—” Keith leaned forward, setting his glass down. “They go to our _school_? You didn’t tell me that.”

There was an almost manic fascination in his voice, like this was very valuable and crucial information Lance withheld.

“Only one of them—not the boyfriend, but his friend.”

Keith leaned back, crossing his legs loosely. “Frat guy, huh? Cliché.”

“Right?! Every time I see his Mercedes I wanna spit on it. And I see him and his Lacoste-wearing boyfriend around sometimes, walking their beagle, and I’m like—fuck you, you don’t deserve a beagle.”

“So,” said Keith. “Is that a yes or a no for beating him up?”

Lance leaned back and crossed his arms. “What would it cost me?”

Keith hummed. “Admit that my jacket is stylish.”

“It looks like something Alexander McQueen made when he was twelve. And drunk. And then he threw up on it.”

They argued so loudly they couldn’t believe they hadn’t woken up the house.

Their yelling slowly smoothed out, until it was an hour later and their voices were low again and their glasses empty.

Finally, the sky began to turn blue, and the room opened up and time resumed. They came to the end of their conversations around the time the birds started chirping, and were content to sit, watching out the window. When someone shut the bathroom door and the shower started running, Lance knew that their time was running out, now, disappointment sinking to the bottom of his stomach.

He sighed, bracing himself for the sight of Keith in profile at dawn (he had been doing this long enough to that you should not look at a beautiful boy too suddenly), but when he turned his head, expecting to see Keith staring out the window like he so often did, Keith was looking at right at him, like he could see straight through him, like he knew everything, suddenly.

Everything was supposed to be serene, but his heart started racing in a panic, and then he was sure that Keith could see that too, damning him with those eyes, and Lance could only sit there before him, helpless as a glass house.

/

“I’m sure he doesn’t know,” said Hunk.

“Not that you’re not obvious about it,” said Pidge, because of course she had to. “But he seems pretty oblivious. Then again, who knows what he thinks about in that head of his.”

Lance sighed in frustration. “I’m telling you, he kept giving me these _looks_. And they’re so… _piercing_.”

“Keith gives lots of piercing looks. That’s what he does,” she said. "You sound pretty paranoid, man."

“No, it was different. It was like—he _knew_. Like he was figuring it out.”

“Well, what will you do if he does know?” said Hunk.

“I—”

Lance blinked. He avoided going there, in his daydreams. Usually, he liked to skip to the part where they were madly in love and having morning sex in the dorm showers (which was disgusting, but he didn’t know how he felt about having sex in Keith’s three-hundred-dollar haunted alien murder apartment).

“I guess—I don’t know. I’d still want to be friends,” said Lance, staring at the floor. “I know everyone says that. But—I’d really want to be friends, still.”

Perhaps that was why he had hardly contacted Keith since New Year’s. It had been a week, and Lance got back to the dorms yesterday, but he had only sent some sparse texts (a few memes—always safe) and hadn’t visited Voltron at all.

For the rest of the day he avoided thinking about it, promising himself he’d figure it out when school started, but when he was lying in bed that night, Pidge and Hunk passed out on Hunk’s bed, there was nothing to do but watch the clock.

11:27.

Voltron would be closing in 33 minutes.

32.

31.

Hating himself and proud of himself, he sat up. He stuck his feet in his Adidas sandals, grabbed five dollars on his way out, and relished the way his heart pumped as the cold night air hit his skin.

/

The bell jingled.

“Welco—oh,” said Keith, looking expectant and disappointed all at once. “Hey.”

Lance tried not to read too much into that. “Hey.”

He leaned on the counter and dramatically slapped down a five-dollar bill.

He sniffed. “Gimme whatcha got.”

Keith’s mouth twisted in a smile.

They talked while Keith made his drink, teasing and laughing and gossiping and Lance went stupid with relief. Keith was talking to him normally. Everything was fine.

When Keith slid him his drink, Lance rested his elbows on the counter, cheek in palm as he sipped.

“Oof. I haven’t had Vietnamese coffee in a long time.”

“Much better than that iced tar you gave me.”

When Lance was about to retort, Keith interrupted—

“So. You haven’t messaged me in three days.”

Lance’s lips were puckered around the straw, eyes wide like he got caught stealing a candy bar.

He gulped down his coffee, licking his lips slowly.

“Oh, uhhhhh,” he said. “I’m sorry?”

“Hm.”

He was about to apologize again when he realized, “Wait—you could’ve just texted _me_ first.”

Keith looked at him like he was ludicrous.

Other customers came in, ordering last-minute drinks and taking Keith away from him. He didn’t even mind, though. He crossed his arms on the counter and laid his head down, smiling into the crook of his elbow.

Keith was mad at him.

_Diva._

After midnight hit and the lights started flickering and Keith was done closing up, Lance held open the door, and they walked to their street corner.

Instead of waiting at his bus stop, though, Keith said, “I’ll walk you to your dorm.”

“Okay,” said Lance, a little breathless and not willing to question it.

They talked fast and walked slowly, much more slowly than Lance would if he were alone. Keith eyed his bare shoulders and asked him if he was cold—he was only wearing a tank top and basketball shorts, the condensation of a now-watery cup of Vietnamese coffee dripping down his palms, down his wrists.

Lance shook his head. No, this was perfect. The blue night and the January breeze and the crooked palm trees and a friend.

As they approached frat row, nearly empty of people still on break, Keith said casually, too casually,

“So, that frat guy from high school. Which one is he in?”

Keith scanned the row of little mansions, hands in his jean pockets.

Lance pointed a thumb across the street. “Beta-Theta-Whatever.”

Keith jogged towards it, leaving Lance to run after him, shouting, “What are you doing?”

“You said he had a Mercedes, right?”

“Yeah,” said Lance. “It’s that black one, in the garage.”

Keith sauntered— _sauntered_ , Lance had never seen anyone successfully saunter before—towards it.

It was harder to make out Keith’s face in the shadows, but he could see the gleam in his eyes.

“You like cars?” said Lance. He didn’t think Keith would be the type; he seemed too practical and unconcerned.

“Oh, yeah,” said Keith. “I love cars.”

“I hate that he made me hate a Mercedes. His parents probably bought it for him, too.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t your parents buy you the Prius?”

“Can you not point out my hypocrisy right now? I’m trying to have a moment.”

Keith circled the car slowly, thoughtfully.

“I was thinking about what you told me,” said Keith. “And I realized I never told you I was sorry. That they hurt you.”

“Oh,” he said, voice soft. “That’s okay. I mean, I didn’t—it’s okay.”

“Hey, Lance.”

“Yeah?”

“Compliment my jacket.”

Laughter bubbled in his throat. “What?”

“Do it.”

Lance thought about being stubborn for a moment, but decided to give in: “It’s a nice color on you, I guess.”

“Thanks,” said Keith, smiling. “Hey, do you do any art?”

He breathed a laugh. “No, I took naps in art class, remember?” said Lance. Why?”

“Hm, that’s a shame,” said Keith, unzipping his backpack. Something rattled.

He uncapped the can with a pop, shaking it.

“What are you—”

He held it with a steady hand, the hiss of spray paint echoing in the dead of the night.

Lance’s mouth fell open.

“What the _f_ —”

Keith shushed him.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he whisper-screamed as Keith finished painting uppercase “U” in teal.

“ _Keith_ ,” Lance breathed. He looked around frantically, searching for any witnesses. The block was entirely empty, but anyone could still walk by. “Holy shit. Dude. Dude. He’s an asshole, but you could get arrested.”

“Always a drama queen,” said Keith, moving on to the next letter. “There aren’t any security cameras here.”

“Why do you know that?”

Keith took a step back, holding his chin and examining his work thus far.

“Wow,” said Lance despite himself, “your lettering is actually really nice.”

Keith tilted up his chin, flattered. “Thank you.”

“Holy shit,” Lance whispered. “This is the most illegal thing I’ve ever done.”

“Well, technically, _I’m_ doing it.”

When Keith finished, Lance’s furrowed his brows.

“Why did you paint the initials of our rival university?”

“People will think they did it. There’s a football game next week, anyway. They’ll just think it’s school rivalry.”

Lance turned to him, staring wide-eyed. “It’s scary how smart you are about this.”

Keith painted a “Go lions!!!” for good measure.

“I wouldn’t be a _careless_ vandal, Lance,” he said. “I do have a future to think about, or something. According to my teachers in high school, anyway.”

Lance squinted at him. “You’re like, a delinquent,” he realized. “You participate in delinquency.”

“I dabble.”

Then he was holding out the can of spray paint to Lance. “Only if you want to.”

Lance stared at it, mouth open but saying nothing.

Finally, he took it.

After a few minutes, Keith raised an eyebrow. “A dick? Really?”

“Hey, it’s a classic.”

After a little more scribbling, Keith shoved the can back into his backpack, then pulled something out of his pocket.

He flicked open the switchblade.

“So… the tires next?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” said Lance. “No. No. I am putting my foot down.”

“Really? Just one tire?”

Lance considered for a second, then shook his head firmly. “ _No_. No slashing tires. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

Keith sighed, pocketing his switchblade.

After a last look around the block to make sure it was empty, Lance was ready to book it, but Keith tugged on the back of his shirt.

“Don’t. Run. Just walk normally.”

“Oh my god,” he breathed as they walked, excruciatingly slow.

“That was so illegal. I’m scared but like, also kind of turned on? God, this is crazy.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What did you just say?”

“What did _you_ say?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Neither did I.”

“No, you said you were tur—”

“Stop putting words in my mouth! We don’t have time for this.”

When they were a few blocks away, Keith glanced at him.

“You’re dying to run, aren’t you?”

“It just feels wrong not to run from the scene of a crime.”

Keith laughed, clear and loud. He grabbed his wrist, and before Lance could process the warmth of his hands or the way the fact that Keith was practically holding his goddamn hand, they were running.

Cold wind on their faces and in their mouths and through their hair, they ran while hardly looking at anything around them, only noticing whether it was grass or pavement under their feet and trying not to laugh. Keith’s hand stayed firm on Lance’s wrist, unnecessary, and Lance hoped they’d never make it back.

But they did, and they stopped, panting as they reached a bench in front of Lance’s building. Keith pulled off his backpack and threw his head back, relishing the cool, smooth wood against his back and arms.

Their breathing slowed, fading into the bright sound of cicadas as the cold air seeped into their skin. The moon seemed impossibly bright and yellow, so close he could almost ache for it.

But instead he felt cracked open, not like an egg or skull but perhaps a watermelon. The tides had been pulling him, or maybe he walked here, but either way he was sitting next to Lance, clarity finally settling in his chest. It unfolded, paper smooth.

It had been so slow, the process of looking out and brushing away dust and looking in, until it wasn’t, and now he was here.

/

The bell jingled.

“Welcome.”

Another five-dollar bill, and a new drink.

“I still can’t believe we did that,” said Lance, sitting cross-legged and backwards on a chair while Keith mopped the floor beneath him. “In addition to being illegal, that was like, the pettiest thing I’ve ever done.”

“That’s surprising.”

“ _Hey._ ”

A few customers came in, and Keith stopped to make them drinks, then resumed when they left, like he always did.

“And I thought you were joking when you offered to beat them up.”

Keith let out a laugh. “I mean, I didn’t hit him. I got into a lot of fights when I was younger, but I think—I like to think I don’t hurt people anymore unless it’s necessary,” he said. “I think my therapist would be proud of me for this.”

“Wha—okay, first of all,” said Lance, gesturing wildly, “ _no_ therapist would be proud of this. None of them. Vandalism is like, a ‘no’ in therapy. Second of all, you gotta tell me more about your childhood, man. I’m like, dying here. I’m nosy, okay? Third of all—you have a _therapist_?”

“Yeah, dude,” said Keith, like he didn’t understand Lance’s surprise. “You know the counseling services here are free with the university insurance, right? _Free_.”

“That’s not really what I—”

“I mean, it’s _free_ ,” Keith repeated in awe. “Do you know how expensive therapy is? It’s like, a hundred bucks an hour. I make twelve bucks an hour.” Keith looked thoughtful. “Huh. Maybe _I_ should be a therapist.”

“You, like, definitely shouldn’t,” said Lance flatly. “But I’ll support your dreams or whatever.”

When the lights started flickering and Keith turned off the neon “OPEN” sign, he returned to the counter and made himself a drink. Lance grabbed the mop, twirling it between his hands.

“I wonder what it’s like to be a barista,” said Lance. “The only job I’ve ever had was volunteer tutoring in high school.”

“Seriously?” said Keith. He muttered under his breath. “ _Upper-middle-class suburban…_ ”

“I could totally make boba! Or mop.”

He mopped his way behind the counter, humming a tune, while Keith shook his head.

When he looked up, Lance was struck by the view. Behind the counter, he saw the shop almost in panorama. It was entirely familiar yet utterly strange.

“So you think I look like an alien, huh?”

Keith was leaning back, surprisingly relaxed. His features flickered in and out with the lights, coming to life for a few seconds and then sliding back under shadows for an instant. This was horror movie lighting. This was ghost-haunted lighting.

Lance sighed.

And he was still, against all odds, beautiful.

“Yeah.”

“You know what you look like?”

“A brown Matt Damon, but with more delicate features?”

Keith snickered. “No, you look like… Actually, I don’t know.”

“C’mon!”

“I can’t think of anything.” Lance was about to complain when Keith continued, “You don’t really seem like anything else I’ve encountered.”

Lance’s eyes widened, face getting warm. His grip on the broom handle tightened.

Keith grinned a bit, lopsided. “Maybe _you’re_ the alien?”

Lance was about to say something, but couldn’t find the words.

They held a stare, suddenly finding themselves in an odd, bare place where there were no more lines in the script.

 _This was the part_ , Lance thought distantly, this was the part where he was supposed kiss him, to confess, to do something worth doing, consequences be damned.

He didn’t.

It was then that it finally sunk in—probably, he would never. He had never been a coward with relationships before, but he’d never had a friend quite like Keith before, either. Probably, he would continue to ache and pine over him and then get over it, some day. But they would still be friends. They would still have that kind of love. And Lance couldn’t be so careless with that, he couldn’t bet with it.

His heart sunk.

That was how it was going to be.

Then, Keith broke their silence.

“I was waiting for you to kiss me, I think. Back in your room.”

Lance froze. A hitched breath.

“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go? Or am I wrong?”

A long silence followed, Keith staring at him patiently, and Lance didn’t know if he could do this.

“No,” he said finally, so quietly he didn’t know if Keith could hear him. “You’re right.”

“I usually am,” says Keith with a hint of a smile.

_Are we really doing this?_

“ _You_ could’ve kissed _me_ , you know.”

 _Holy shit_.

The words coming out of his mouth seemed entirely separate from him.

“I’m not that brave,” Keith said. “I was waiting for you.”

As he stared at Keith’s face in the flickering light, trying to push past shock, he suddenly realized that Keith was waiting for him this very moment—that this was Keith’s way of asking.

Lance had been waiting for so long, for so many things. Waiting to see if Keith liked him, waiting for Keith to notice his feelings, waiting for himself to finally say something.

He didn’t think anyone had ever waited for him.

He dropped the broom handle, hands shaking as they rose to cradle Keith’s face, lips just barely touching as Lance mumbled “Sorry” against his skin and kissed him.

For a moment they stilled, lips pressed together and time frozen, until the shaking hands and rapid pulses couldn’t be ignored anymore and they were really kissing, desperate and urgent and clumsy until they were drowning in it.

Lance tugged on his hair lightly, and Keith made the most maddening noise. Lance tugged again, tipping Keith’s head back, licking at his lips until they parted for him. He was tasting him, for the first time. He let out an abrupt, desperate moan, and Keith's hands moved from his sides to fist the front of his shirt. The action was strangely, unbelievably cute and even demure—until Keith was pushing him back hard into the counter and sliding his fingers through his hair.

This wasn’t happening. This had to be a joke, or a dream, or a fantasy, or maybe Keith was only looking for a fling, but then he stared at Keith's lips and—

Lance laughed.

Keith pulled away, confused.

It was real. It was so fucking real. Lance had finally found something Keith was bad at, and it was so delightful he thought his lungs would burst.

“You’re a terrible kisser,” he said, terribly fond.

He realized the instant that hurt and disbelief crossed Keith’s face.

“No, wait!” He panicked as Keith took a step back. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, it _is_ what I meant. But not that way. I love kissing you. It’s just—”

He let out a frustrated groan, giving up and pulling Keith in for another kiss and hoping he wouldn’t get a slap across the face.

Keith was merciful, and Lance almost sagged with relief, ready to pull away and talk about this—them— _us_ —but then Keith’s lips were parting again in invitation, nails digging into his shoulder and pulling him in, and Lance could do nothing but meet him there.

/

“You _do_ like me, right?” he said finally.

Keith shifted on the bus stop bench, turning to him in disbelief.

“Lance. I offered to slash a guy’s tires for you.”

 _Oh my_ god.

Lance let out a shaky breath, half a laugh and almost hysterical.

“I think that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

When the bus came, squeaking against the pavement, their fingers were laced together on the bench, and they had to let go.

Lance took his hand one last time.

“‘Parting is such sweet sorrow.’”

“Please don’t make me break up with you,” said Keith, standing on the first step of the bus.

Lance stroked Keith’s palm, greedy and awed, before pressing his lips to Keith's fingers.

A sharp inhale.

Keith stood there, shocked, until he blinked and remembered where he was and abruptly turned around.

(Just before the bus doors closed, Lance could see the driver with a raised eyebrow and amused smile. Keith looked at him sharply. “ _Not_ a word.”)

When he sat down, clutching the backpack in his lap and staring at Lance through the window, all Lance could do with was grin and laugh.

Keith’s eyes went wide, lips pursed and face flushing in a way Lance had never seen before, and for the first time, in a kind of tenderness and embarrassment too much to bear, Keith looked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I finally finished. I know it took forever, but thank you so much for reading. I'm feeling very uncertain/frustrated about this chapter, but it feels good to have it finished and out. I got so much amazing feedback I never expected. Thank you if you ever commented or sent me a message or just read this all the way through.


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